


Photo Bucket

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck, Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/F, Gen, Illustrations, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Third Person Limited, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-16 08:06:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 41
Words: 64,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11824542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: Dave Strider never believed in soulmates. He never cared about the soul mark that he, as well as every other person on the planet, was born with.Rose Lalonde always believed in soulmates. She met hers in a chat room and courted her online. Now, thanks to her half brother's new job as a photographer for Maryam Fashion, she's ready for a long-awaited hook up.(The Voltron relationships are secondary to RoseMary and DaveKat, as a warning.)





	1. Blackbird

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [M.C. Escher that's my favourite MC](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10556322) by [Unda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unda/pseuds/Unda). 



> I'm alive!!!!!!!! As per usual, I'm doing my best with the ASL, but if there's something wrong, let me know!!! I want this to be accurate and entertaining. **ADDITIONAL NOTE [Added 30 July 2018]:** A chapter with an asterisk at the end includes an image! | **ANOTHER NOTE [Added 1 August 2018]:** Fuck it's let's add some Voltron in here; see them in Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I named this after a Beatles song. Sue me.

**DAVE STRIDER** is a formidable figure. Standing at a height of exactly six feet, he towers over many. He's sturdy, muscular, and lean. Stubble often covers his angular jaw and subtly pointed chin. His golden blond hair, however, is always neatly groomed.

Today is his first day in the quaint town of Skaia. He's finally slipped away from his half sister and roommate, Rose, and is now enjoying a bit of exploration. He's equipped himself with his camera, but he carries little else.

Today, he revels in the crisp fall air. It's brisk and cool, a far cry from the hot, gasoline-scented air of his brother's high rise.

He's set himself up beneath a sturdy oak tree, and his attentions are squarely centered upon a flock of nearby crows. He lays on his belly, and his camera's sights are centered perfectly on his target. Slowly, he inches forward. A crow stares at him, seemingly looking through the viewfinder. Its eye gleams, reflecting the pattern of the bare branches above.

Just one...

More...

Inch...

Leaves crackle. The crows disperse. Their wings stretch open and propel them upwards, scattering them to the skies above.

A spot on Dave's right wrist—an icon of a drop of candy red blood, with the highlight shaped like the astronomical symbol for Cancer—burns. This is his soul mark, a pictorial representation of his soulmate. When it burns, it's said that someone's soulmate is nearby. (Not that Dave believes in any of that fanciful crap.)

"SHIT!" Dave yelps. He rolls over, onto his back, and stares upwards, towards the source of the disturbance. He expects to find a man towering above him, his face obscured by the shadow of a beaten up baseball cap, and his eyes covered by pointed shades.

Instead, he finds himself gazing into a pair of slate grey eyes. The man before him is little more than five feet tall, and he has a stockier build than the person Dave had expected. His skin is a rich, dark brown. His hair, rather than pale blond, is a thick, wild tangle of black, and a dark grey cochlear implant is barely visible amidst this untamable mess. His thick brows are furrowed, though the reason could be either confusion or annoyance.

"What the actual fuck are you doing?" the stranger inquires. He's loud, almost obnoxiously so, and his voice has a crackling, scratchy quality. It's almost like a worn out record, complete with the slightly muffled soft consonants. "You know what? Never mind. I can't really psych myself up enough to give a shit."

Dave, in return, offers a blank stare. As he often does when confused, he cocks his head a bit to the side. "Nice to meet you, too, whoever the hell you're supposed to be. What, are you the park police?"

"No," the stranger grunts. He folds his arms across his chest and straightens his back. This all adds about half an inch to his height.

In reply, Dave stands up. He towers above the unknown man by a solid foot. "So, I don't really have to tell you what I was doing?"

This gives the stranger a moment's pause. He opens his mouth, as if to answer, only to close it again. He rubs the back of his neck. After a minute or so, he offers a shrug. "I guess not. And, like I said, I don't really care. I've got enough shit on my plate to last me twice my lifetime's daily recommended caloric intake of metaphorical feces." Despite his words, his posture remains confrontational. He's once again crossed his arms, and his brows remain furrowed.

Dave doesn't mind the adversarial atmosphere, though. His childhood was filled with it. "That's some colorful terminology, dude. Never heard that before."

"Oh," the stranger exclaims, "I have a whole spectrum of creative insults. I could sling them around all fucking day, if I so desired, but I don't. I want to get on with my fucking piss-poor day, which includes setting my ass on that bench and eating my shitty five dollar sub in peace," he growls, gesturing to the empty park bench a few yards behind Dave.

"I'm not stopping you, now," Dave hums. His facial expression doesn't change. His lips remain set in a thin, enigmatic line, and his eyes are hidden behind his usual mirrored aviator shades. "Go ahead and knock yourself out with that footlong sub. Sling it around in the breeze. I'm just taking pictures of birds."

"Jesus Christ," the strangers bemoans, "You're one of THOSE people. You're one of those aesthetic blogger fucknozzles. Just because you own a goddamned low-end hobby camera doesn't mean you—"

Dave beats the stranger to the punch. He shoves a semiglossy business card into his hand and offers an obviously fake smile. It's the sort of smile that business people give you when they want to make you feel better, a trust-me-shut-up-and-buy-this smile. "Name's Dave Strider." At this point, the smile fades, and his usual facade of disinterest returns, "Professional photographer. Worked for a whole lot of different places, but my most recent brought me here. I'll start up with the Maryam Fashion company tomorrow."

"Well. It's official. God fucking hates me. I don't know what I did to offend the almighty powers that be, but it appears that every single one of them hates me." The man shoves the business card in his pocket with unabashed aggression.

"Didn't mean to interrupt your ravings, Nietzsche, but it sounds like you have some unresolved problems. I sure as fuck ain't approved to handle that, so..." Dave buries his hands in his pockets and prepares to leave.

The stranger, however, stops him. "I assume you know Rose Lalonde."

"She's my half sister, so I fucking hope I know her."

"Tell her Karkat finished her first draft. She's got a whole assload of issues to work out in it." At this point, the man reaches into the messenger bag hanging from his right shoulder. He pulls out a wad of wrinkled papers, which are bound together with far too many staples, and shoves them into Dave's chest. "Looks like I'll be seeing more of your goddamned awful face than I'd ever want to."

"What the hell is that supposed to—"

Dave's question is ignored. Karkat offers an insincere wave, turns on his heel, and storms off. Lunch seems to have been scratched from his to do list for today.

* * *

**ROSE LALONDE** is a woman of few averages. She is highly intelligent, often praised as quite beautiful, and extremely inquisitive. She is, however, the average height and weight for a twenty-four-year-old woman. Her hair is light blonde, and it's often accented with a pink hair band. Today is no exception.

As for the details of her life, she shares little openly. What most people know is as follows: She was raised by a single mother, and she knew nothing about her half brother, Dave, before she turned thirteen. The two were only introduced after Dave was taken by social services and introduced to her home. Nonetheless, she has invested a great deal of effort into supporting her half-brother. Aside from this, the only other thing people are sure of is that she has made a name for herself as a romance author.

For the past few months, she has tended to a budding romance with fashion designer, Kanaya Maryam, and that relationship led to Dave's most recent job. This new job also necessitated the pair's move to Skaia.

Thus, she finds herself working on the new apartment, which she shares with Dave, as she listens to the end of his tale.

"An absolute fucking douche," Dave says, emphatically. His arms are crossed, his jaw is set, and he's clearly not up for any reasoning. "He told me to tell you you had a lot to work on in your draft."

"I'm aware, and I'll be sure to thank him for such a prompt response." Rose sets aside the draft and returns to unpacking the dishes. "I've told you about him before."

"You have?" Dave pauses.

"Yes," Rose snickers. "I knew you weren't listening to me, though, so I usually stopped saying anything. It's like talking to a brick wall. Anyhow, he's been my editor for the past two years."

"Oh." For a brief moment, a frown appears on Dave's face. However, his usual enigmatic look returns within seconds. "He's still a douche."

"Suit yourself. He's quite nice, actually. He sent me that little crab-shaped paperweight when my first book became a bestseller."

"I hate that thing. He probably pulled it out of the trash. Not even Goodwill; they wouldn't want it." Dave remains unmoved.

Rose expected as much. She shrugs. "Well, you'll be seeing a lot of him, since he and Kanaya live together. And he's the model for most of Kanaya's masculine clothing."

"Fuck," Dave groans. He massages his temples with his left hand and reaches, into the fridge, for a beer with his right. "Way to ruin a shitty day."

"That's your only beer today, Dave. And I'm not the one who left his half sister to unpack everything by herself." Though the words are somewhat serious, especially considering the Strider-Lolonde families' history with alcohol, Rose can't help but smirk. She knows her brother well enough to know that her words will be disregarded, but she also knows that they'll annoy him.

Confirming these suspicions, Dave raises his shades long enough to roll his eyes. "You're not my mom, Rose."

"Fair enough." With this, Rose returns to sorting the silverware, and Dave wanders off to his room.


	2. We've Only Just Begun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol I don't know that many lyrical songs that aren't musicals so enjoy this Paul Williams song

**DAVE STRIDER** was taught, from an early age, that tardiness was to be avoided. If he was late to breakfast, he received nothing. If he was late to dinner, he'd be locked in his room. When his brother called, he was to arrive promptly and without objection. His assignment was to begin at 10:00, and he made sure to be there on time.

Thus, he arrives at the Maryam residence at 9:30. He wears a red suit with a black tie, and his hair is neatly slicked back. He knocks once, then waits.

From a young age, he was told to never pester. If he was upset, he was allowed to try to gain his brother's attentions once. If he tried again, he was punished. If he came home later than expected, he could knock once on the door, and, then, he was to wait. A second knock meant a night sleeping in the hallway.

Thus, he waits.

At 9:45, the formidable oak doors swing open. "You're early," Kanaya says.

Now, Dave can see why Rose likes her. She's goddamned gorgeous. Her figure is long and elegant, as if pulled from a mannerist painting, and her eyes are a brilliant shade of jade. Her hair is straight, though it curls a bit at the ends, and her skin is a flawless dark brown.

"Yes," is all Dave manages to squeeze out through his shock. How Karkat can live with a woman this beautiful and not have anything going on, as Rose claims, is beyond Dave's imagination. "I..." He pauses. He clears his throat, takes a breath in, then continues. "Sorry, am I not supposed to be early?"

"No, you're perfectly fine. Karkat is getting prepped for the shoot. His makeup team should be finished soon." Kanaya offers a small smile. She steps aside, allowing access to the lavish entryway. When Dave is behind her, she continues onwards. "We'll be shooting in the parlor. The lighting has already been adjusted, but you're welcome to rearrange things as you see fit. I quite enjoy your candid style, so I'd be delighted to see that work into this shoot."

Dave nods. At this point, Kanaya stops, and there's a chance to look around. The room is somewhat small, though there’s plenty of space to work with. The furniture is old-fashioned, presumably restoration work or high-quality reproductions, and the decor matches the style. The primary colors of the room are carmine and taupe, with various shades of yellow and silver as accents. It's an imposing, heavy-handed color scheme, and Dave is aware that it won't work with everything. For now, though, he keeps his mouth shut.

"I've been told that Karkat is a wonderful model to work with," Kanaya volunteers this information, perhaps at random, and absentmindedly checks her phone. "I have other things to work on, though, so I'll leave you to work things out." With this said, Kanaya departs.

And, as if on cue, Karkat emerges a few moments later. He's clad in a white suit, which comes with burnt umber accents, and black shoes. His hair has been tamed a bit, though it's still messy. The makeup crew has done an impeccable job, in Dave's opinion. (In other words, the makeup is subtle enough to look natural.)

Clearly, Dave can work with this. He unpacks his camera equipment, noting the curious gaze of his subject. "You've probably seen this dozens of times. Not sure why it's such a fucking surprise now," he says.

Karkat responds with a look of confusion. He holds his left hand, the index finger extended, out, and hits the index finger of his right hand against the outstretched fingertip. Then, he taps his ear twice.

Dave, understanding little more than the fact that Karkat isn't understanding him, abandons his conversation. Instead, he sets up the rest of the equipment in silence.

The tranquility is broken, however, as Dave prepares to set up the first shot. "There's paper on the table. I'm guessing you don't know sign language, so get to do this the hard way. Fucking amazing, right?" Karkat says, his voice even louder than usual.

Dave, shrugs. He grabs the paper, pulls a red pen from his pocket, and scribbles the first order. As it only took up half the page, he rips the relevant half off, and hands it it Karkat. (Just sit down. Look like you're thinking of a way to insult me or something. I don't fucking know.")

Karkat responds by rolling his eyes. He holds both hands outwards, with the palms facing up, and brushes the tips of his right hand against the fingers of his left. The motion moves upwards, and is repeated once. "Easy," he announces, smirking.

Theres a brief moment of thought afterwards, but Karkat seems to choose a spot quickly. He sits in a leather armchair, crosses his legs, and looks a bit to the left. His arms are folded loosely across his chest, and his brows are furrowed, as if he's concentrating on finding the meaning of life.

Dave offers a thumbs up, though he's unsure of whether or not Karkat sees it. Either way, he takes a few photos of this pose. He tries a few angles, then branches out another direction. ("Try one of those godawful CEO power poses.")

Despte the vague instructions, Karkat obliges. He stands, folds his hands on top of a tall standing globe, and straightens his back. He spaces his feet shoulder width apart, and holds his head high. He stares directly forwards.

"Move your head a little to the side and down," Dave says.

Karkat raises a brow. "Can't fucking hear you, you dense piece of soggy balsa wood. Just come fix it."

Dave groans. He's never been fond of close-quarters shoots, and he's definitely not comfortable with handling models in any form. Nevertheless, he's not about to fuck up his first shoot. He steps forwards, reaches out, and prepares to adjust Karkat's head.

But, when his hand touches Karkat, there's a shock—an odd, tingling sensation. It's powerful, like a bolt of lightning, yet pleasant, like a familiar scent. Dave stumbles back, though Karkat barely flinches. He signs something, which Dave doesn't understand, before pausing. "You okay, Strider?"

"Yeah," Dave lies. He rubs the symbol on his wrist, the source of the sensation, and backs up. "You're fine."

Karkat shrugs. He remains in place, acting as a perfect model while Dave completes the pose.

At this point, Dave decides that he will not be touching Karkat again. He's fully aware of the situation, and he knows that such an occurrence would likely only come from a soulmate reaction, but he's not about to let that shit get to him. His brother might have been a load of shit, but he was right about one thing: there was no soulmate on this planet for Dave.

"Look, I think you're an overconfident bastard, but you don't look so hot, Strider," Karkat says, his voice twelve settings too high for Dave's current state.

"It's fine," Dave, again, lies. He writes up a batch of commands, then picks one from the set. ("Sit in the floor. Relaxed, but on the edge. Like you're taking a load off in the middle of a long walk.")

Karkat obeys.

This continues for two hours. At the end, Karkat offers little more than a concerned glance and a wave. Then, he disappears. Presumably, he's going to change into more comfortable clothing.

Dave, however, gathers his supplies in pensive silence. He considers the possibility that his brother was wrong, but immediately dismisses it. Beyond that, there's no way his soulmate would be another man, right?

Of course. He reassures himself of this fact many times. Then, with his things packed, he departs. He thanks Kanaya for the opportunity, and heads back to the apartment to comb through and edit the images.

* * *

 **KANAYA MARYAM** prides herself in her fashion sense and her composure, and she has at least one of these things going for her as she steps into the front yard. She chose her dress to match the fall season, using a leaf plucked from her yard a few days ago to select the perfect color.

The second thing, however, is out the window. Her heart races as she approaches the familiar blonde, and it begins to pound like a war drum as she sits beside her on the wrought iron bench by the dried up bird bath.

"So," she begins, her mouth dry, "Its nice to finally meet you, Rose."

In return, Rose smiles. Unlike Kanaya, her mark is clearly visible. It's on the right side of her neck, and it depicts what appears to be the large end of a medieval morning star. The spikes are orange, and the body is battleship grey. The symbol corresponds to an odd Maryam family heirloom known as the matriorb, which Kanaya has periodically researched. (By all accounts, it's just a painted morning star, likely an odd art project from generations ago.)

"You look lovely," Kanaya continues, only to mentally kick herself for how cliched the comment was.

Rose doesn't seem to mind, though. "I would say the same, but I'm not sure it's fair. I don't think I'd do well against a fashion designer."

Kanaya snickers. She smiles and relaxes, finding that the discussion is just as easy as it had been when t was only text on a screen. "Well, would you enjoy a tour of the garden?"

"That sounds pleasant," Rose responds, grinning. She offers her hand and, when Kanaya takes it, a pleasant warmth spreads through her body.

Kanaya's mark pulses briefly, though she knows only from the brief warmth. Her mark, a pair of crossed knitting needles, is hidden, set over her heart.

A moment of silence passes between the two, and both acknowledge the shared sensation of active soul marks.

Then, without further hesitation, Kanaya begins to head to the north. "The apple trees are usually full of fruit this time of year."

"Well, then, I see no reason to delay!" Rose replies, following merrily.


	3. Harmony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appropriated my parents' musical tastes. This is an Elton John song.

**KARKAT VANTAS** is what most people would classify as a romantic. He often finds himself contemplating his soul mark, which depicts a scratched vinyl record, and what it could mean about its match.

Perhaps his soulmate likes music. Maybe he's dealt with some sort of life-altering event.

Whatever the meaning is, Karkat is now certain of one thing: for some unfathomable teason, the person the mark corresponds to is none other than Dave Strider.

"This is absolute bullshit!" He exclaims, toying with a stray strand of hair. "Just my fucking luck. I cannot believe this goddamned shit-covered earthworm is my soulmate."

"Well, that is the only explanation for the sensations you're currently feeling," Kanaya shrugs. She stares at the design on her desk, never once lifting her gaze towards Karkat. "And, from what I can tell, you're holding something against Dave. I'm not sure what it is, but there's something there."

"You're spending too much time with Rose," Karkat grumbles. He slumps back, sinking into the plush armchair, and covers his face with his hands. "My life is the fucking embodiment of hell on earth."

"You're being far too dramatic about this." Kanaya sighs. She gathers his things in her arms and begins to wander off. "I don't feel like dealing with this today. Enjoy moping, I suppose." With this said, she departs.

And, seconds later, the phone rings.

Naturally, Karkat grabs it. His implant is one of the fancier types, and the phone is set to automatically connect with it via Bluetooth.

"Hello?" an uncertain voice is on the other end. It's grainy and electronic, and lack of caller ID for the number destroys any hope of Karkat being able to guess who it is. "This is Karkat Vantas, right?"

"I fucking hope so."

There's a long pause. For a moment, Karkat believes that the caller has hung up, though they eventually speak up. "Well, shit, I just wanted to make damn sure. It's Dave. I feel kind of bad for how the shoot went yesterday, so... uh... Would you be interested in meeting me for lunch? I'll pay."

Karkat considers the offer. Free food is alaways tempting, but the company poses a large problem. "That depends. Where?"

"I don't know," Dave admits. "You pick. I just moved here, so it's not like I know where to eat."

"I'll meet you at Spice Shack. Noon," Karkat says. While this isn't exactly anything to look forward to, free Indian food is always a treat. "Bye, Strider."

* * *

**DAVE STRIDER** sits in the middle of a crowded Indian restaurant. The table seats only two, and everyone around him seems to be having a pleasant time. Conversations are bountiful, yet he can't seem to think of a single thing to say to Karkat.

He, however, seems to have something to say. He finishes eating another bite of his dish, using his fingers (as many other diners are also doing), before glancing at Dave. "You can ask. Everyone fucking asks, so let's just get that shit out of the way. Satisfy that burning pyre of curiosity and outrageous goddamned rudeness, Strider."

Dave, of course, is fully aware of what Karkat is talking about, but he's not about to get knee deep into that load of bullshit. If Karkat volunteers the information himself, he'll take it; otherwise, Dave is perfectly happy to remain oblivious. "I don't have a clue what you're rambling about, Karkat."

"Well, that's surprisingly polite." Karkat shrugs. He takes another bite of his dish before continuing, "Look, let's get the elephant out of the room. I sure as fuck hope you're observant enough to know I'm Deaf, right?"

"Sure," says Dave.

"That's good. You've reached the absolute lowest rung of my ladder of expectations. I'll schedule a shitty celebration to commmorate this astronomical milestone. Anyhow, I know you want to know _why_. Goddamned everyone and their fucking goldfish wants to know why."

"It's not something I'll need to survive, nah," Dave shrugs.

Karkat responds with an obviously incredulous huff. "I can see how fucking interested you are, Strider. You can keep that middle school cool kid act up as long as you fucking want, but it's not getting you anywhere."

Again, Dave shrugs. Admittedly, he's curious. That said, there's something oddly entertaining about winding Karkat up.

"Whatever." Karkat rolls his eyes. He eyes Dave's untouched plate as he continues, "I'll get the sob story out now before you hear it somewhere else. I got meningitis. Doesn't that sound like a fucking load of fun?"

"Not really." Dave pauses. He eyes over Karkat, studying him closely. "Sounds kind of shitty."

"I don't remember it. The bottom line is that I can't hear anything during shoots, so we'll have to find a way around that, won't we?"

"Probably."

"You're usually talking enough to kill a goddamned army through sheer boredom." Karkat's brows furrow, the inner edges pressing together in concern.

This surprises Dave. He's never really had much experience with people who aren't Rose actually caring about him. Sure, he has online friends, but he's never met them in real life. And, this is different. Rose's concern stems from familial bonds. Karkat, though, has no reason to care about Dave. It's a baffling dilemma, and Dave reacts the only way he knows how. He nods. "Perfectly peachy, dude."

"I'm not sure I believe that, but I don't feel like digging into your business." Again, Karkat's eyes wander to Dave's untouched plate. "You going to finish that masala?"

"Nope," Dave slides the plate across the table as he responds. He's never been a fan of Indian food, but Rose convinced him to at least make an effort to apologize. "Knock yourself the fuck out."

"I will," Karkat responds, digging into Dave's dish. "So, what? You just came here for small talk? You're doing a shit job at it."

"I don't have much to say, dude. What do you want me to do? You want a mime show?"

"Let's not," Karkat huffs.

"Sounds reasonable." Dave nods. His attentions drift, and he finds himself thinking about what happened earlier. When he touched Karkat, the reaction was unmistakable. That was the telltale sign of a soulmate bond.

Of course, Dave reasons, that can't be the case. For one thing, any soulmate of his would be a twenty foot tall spider made of teeth and the fires of hell. That's to say Dave has never believed one existed. And, if one did, it had to be a woman. His brother had told him that much...

"Strider!" Karkat snaps, bringing Dave out of his introspection. He slides a receipt across the table. "I paid for you. I ate most of your lunch, anyhow." He rises from his seat and offers a disinterested wave. "Later. I don't know what you do all day, but I've actually got to do things."

"Makes sense," Dave mutters.

"Yeah. Whatever. Thanks for... I suppose it was a vaguely decent attempt at an apology, minus the part where you checked out for a solid half an hour," Karkat grabs one of the complimentary wet cloths from the table. He wipes off his right hand, which he'd used to eat, and turns on his heel. Without saying another word, he leaves.


	4. 'Ol 55

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is by The Eagles. I have no clue what modern pop music is.

**ROSE LALONDE** sits on the other side of a large executive desk. She's fairly certain it's made of fake wood, though it has a fairly sturdy appearance. A small plaque sits at the front of the desk, bearing the name of the man on the other side, Karkat Vantas.

"Your work is fascinating," he says, looking uncomfortable and out of place in an overly formal suit and tie. "I'd say it has potential, but you've got to refine it some more. Needs a little less smut."

"That's a decent and understandable conclusion," Rose admits. She taps her fingers against the draft in her lap, and watches Karkat carefully. "Are you saying that you'll publish it?"

"We've published the two prequels, so I don't see any reason why we shouldn't publish this one." Karkat shrugs. He fiddles with his right earpiece. He signs something, presumably to himself, that Rose doesn't understand. Then, he continues, "You've got the deal, but you'll have to call Sollux for the money. You probably knew that much."

"It's the same procedure as always, I assume," Rose nods. "How was your meeting with my stubborn asshole of a half-brother?"

"Decent," Karkat admits. "He seemed preoccupied with something. Who knows what sort of shit was happening in his head?"

"I might have a clue," sighs Rose. She makes a mental note to discuss this with Dave later, then continues, "I believe he knows you're his soulmate. And he isn't rejecting you, he's rejecting the entirety of the concept."

"That's not exactly comforting."

"Fair point." Rose shrugs. "I can't exactly help you, though."

"I figured." Karkat rubs the back of his neck and sighs. His gaze wanders, focusing on a nondescript spot on the ceiling. "Well, I'll be here for the next draft. Fix it up, and I'll get back to you."

Rose offers a gracious nod. With her draft in hand, she rises to her feet and departs.

* * *

**DAVE STRIDER** lays on his bed. He stares at the ceiling and scribbles his thoughts in his notebook.

_And all these things I can't describe_  
_These words and thoughts I can't decide_  
_What the fuck they're supposed to mean_  
_Or what the hell to do with these_  
_Things_

He groans, rips the page from his book, and throws it towards the nearby trash can. The crumpled paper bounces off the rim and rolls under his bed, though he doesn't bother retrieving it. Instead, he runs his fingers through his hair and utters curses to no one in particular.

If the clock on his wall is right, Rose won't be home for a while.

He has time, and he has space. Neither of these things are particularly abundant in his life, so he takes advantage of the situation. He wanders into the kitchen, where he proceeds to prepare himself a bowl of microwave macaroni and cheese.

He waits for the timer to go off. A steady beat forms as he taps his fingers against the faux stone countertop. Common time. Four beats per measure.

For Dave, poetry has always been little more than a hobby. He uses it to express himself, though he rarely tells anyone. Often, he'll present his works as raps. His older brother liked raps. Raps were met with approval, whereas plain poetry was seen as shameful. Time with Rose has changed this some, but habits are hard to break.

Dave tries to think of words to go with the tune he's conjured up in his head for what seems like forever, though he fails. The microwave beeps, breaking him from his trance. He grabs his freshly made lunch and sits on the sofa. He turns on the television.

"Today, on _Ya Heard? With Perd_ , we're discussing soul marks," the television announces.

Dave wrinkles his nose at the topic. He begins to flick through the channels, eventually stopping on some sort of mindless cooking show.

"Brown the beef, and place it in the pan. Break it up, into chunks, and spread them evenly," the host drones.

Clearly, this isn't anything to get excited about. The information at the bottom of the screen refers to this as a hamburger casserole, a dish to serve three to five people.

Dave yawns.

He pulls up his sleeve and stares at the mark on his wrist. The cherry red droplet is as enigmatic as ever. He feels as if it taunts him, goading him to find a match that doesn't exist. Then again, if a match were to die, the mark would turn grey.

Statistically, though, Dave reasons he'll never meet his match. There are billions of people on the planet, and he's only one. For all he knows, his soulmate lives in some remote island nation.

"Spread some cheese over the dish. Doesn't matter which type. Grated or sliced," the host continues.

Dave grows even more disinterested. He turns off the television, wanders to his room, and opens his laptop. After some hesitancy, he begins to Google information on soulmates.

* * *

**KANAYA MARYAM** stands in the shade of a flourishing apple tree. She studies a particularly low-hanging fruit. The flesh is a brilliant red, though the fruit, itself, is slightly misshapen. This doesn't deter her, though. She plucks it from the branch and moves places it into her basket, which is filled with similarly brilliant produce. Before she lets go, however, she pauses.

"This one looks quite delicious, doesn't it?" she asks, showing the lopsided apple to Karkat.

He responds with a shrug. "Looks like any other fucking apple to me." Despite his words, he grabs the fruit and begins eating. "Tastes fine, though."

"Glad you enjoy it." Kanaya plucks a few more apples, then moves on to the next tree. "So, how did Rose take the criticism?"

"Fine." Karkat takes another bite from the apple. "She always does. If every author was like her, I wouldn't rip my fucking hair out all the time."

Kanaya nods. "She's quite a lovely woman."

"You're obligated to say that. She's your soulmate."

"Well, you don't say many complimentary things about Dave."

"He's a self-absorbed asshole with the emotional range of a goddamned teaspoon. What else is there to say about him?" Karkat studies the fruit in his hand. He's eaten through about half of it.

"Not that I can tell," snickers Kanaya. "By the way, what was that Indian dish you're so fond of? The dessert?"

"Jalebi," Karkat answers, matter-of-factly. A sly grin spreads across his face. "Did you find some somewhere?"

"I picked it up at the store. It's on the counter. I'm surprised you hadn't noticed it yet." Kanaya, too, offers a thin smile.

"I've been kind of busy. Too much shit, not enough time."

"Sounds to me like a personal problem." Kanaya gathers the last of the apples and turns towards the door. "Whenever you're ready, I prepared some salmon. It's in the fridge."

"You're a fucking godsend, Kanaya," Karkat loosens his tie as he says this. He rushes inside, and Kanaya is fully aware that he's off to consume he's off to consume his serving.


	5. Love Like You

**DAVE STRIDER** knows he shouldn't be smoking.

It's unhealthy and stupid, but it's a habit he formed when he was young. When he was thirteen, he stole some of his brother's cigarettes. He smoked one, then two. Pretty soon, he was hooked. He's toned it down over the years. When he was younger, he could chain smoke like it was nobody's business. Of course, when he was caught, he'd always end up with more bruises than it was worth, but he could never stop. As he grew older, he lowered it. Now, he often smokes a maximum of two a day.

Today, though, is different. This is his fifth. It's almost burned out, and the embers are beginning to singe his lips. He ignores the pain long enough to capture a photo of a passing crow. Then, he spits the cigarette out. He crushes it beneath his feet and, as the thin line of smoke fades, he notices Karkat.

Notably, Karkat hasn't noticed him. He remains preoccupied with his work. A pair of oblong reading glasses are perched on his nose, and a thick wad of papers rests in his lap. In once hand, he holds a sandwich; in the other, he has a red pen. He absentmindedly clicks the pen, though there's no pattern to the action.

"Do you just do the exact same thing every day?" Dave asks, confidently striding towards the familiar figure.

Karkat jumps. He fumbles with his pen, but ultimately ends up dropping it. He stares at Dave with wide eyes. "Damn. You can't just fucking sneak up on me like that."

"It's a free country." If Dave was a more expressive person, a wide, cocky grin would be spread across his face. Instead, he simply folds his arms behind his head. This gives him the appearance of a CEO in casual Friday. "I can do what I fucking please."

"Are you literally so bored that you'll bother random acquaintances? Why not do something more reasonable with your free time, like graffitting a building. There are plenty of eyesore brick bunkers all around this shitty town." Karkat rolls his eyes. He squints at the papers in his lap, and writes a note in the margins. Then, he pauses. "Oh. I don't have to deal with you." He reaches behind his ear, and a quiet click follows.

"Well, that's one solution," Dave shrugs. Without much else to do, he buries his hands in his pockets. He sits down, beside Karkat, and stares at the passing clouds.

"You're fucking insufferable," Karkat grumbles. He doesn't take his eyes off his work.

Dave, knowing Karkat won't hear his answer, offers a noncommittal nod.

* * *

**ROSE LALONDE** sits in the shadow of the best of Kanaya's apple trees. She knits with skill and speed, working on a large Jade colored blanket. "So, you've lived with Karkat for...?"

"Four years," Kanaya responds. She sits beside Rose, and occupies herself with a dress design. "We moved in together after college. There's never been anything romantic between us, but it's often assumed we're married." She sighs and taps the eraser end of her pencil against the page of her drawing pad.

"That does seem to be a somewhat logical conclusion, given social standards."

Kanaya shrugs. "I suppose. Would you mind looking at this?"

Rose glances towards the drawing. She studies the precise details, and eventually concludes, "It seems perfect to me. Perhaps add some accents on the chest."

Kanaya nods in agreement. She carefully erases some of the shading, then begins to add finely detailed touches. "You're a visionary, Rose."

"I'm not a fashion genius, Kan, that's you." Rose punctuates this comment with a small smile. 

Kanaya, too, grins. "True, you're the writer."

"Mhm." Rose eyes her knitting. She runs through a few numbers in her head, calculating how many more stitches she needs, before continuing.


	6. Pinball Wizard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PINBALL WIZARD  
> (This song has nothing to do with this chapter, TBH.)

**KARKAT VANTAS** stands before the door to Rose and Dave's shared apartment. He tugs at his tie and tries to distract himself from how uncomfortable he is in his overstarched suit. He nudges Kanaya and signs, thus avoiding any chance that either Dave or Rose will hear his comments. _"Do I really have to do this?"_

"We invite them into our home, it is only proper that we welcome them into theirs." Kanaya smooths out her long black skirt and offers a small smile. "It's not as if this will kill you, Karkat."

 _"It might as well,"_ Karkat huffs. Having signed this, he folds his arms across his chest.

Kanaya knocks.

Seconds later, Karkat is met by an unexpected sight. Dave stands before him, and his shades are off. His irises burn a brilliant red, and his exposed eyebrows are pure white. "What the fuck? No one is supposed to be coming today, I..." he trails off.

"Hello to you, too, David." Kanaya greets Dave warmly.

Dave slams the door shut.

"DAVE!" exclaims Rose, her voice audible through the door, "I told you Kanaya and Karkat were coming over for dinner."

The door opens again, revealing a more cordial Rose Lalonde. "Sorry about that..," she says more, though Karkat's attentions aren't on her.

Instead, he watches as Dave fumbles with his shades. He watches as Dave offers him a seemingly indifferent glare, only to take a large step back immediately after.

"Karkat!" Kanaya nudges her roommate, prompting Karkat to redirect his focus. "You have the eggplant casserole?"

"Oh. Yeah." Reaching into the cooler over his shoulder, he pulls out a stack of four servings of eggplant casserole. He hands it to Rose, who responds with a polite smile.

"My apologies for Dave's behavior," Rose tuts. "He must have forgotten about tonight."

"I didn't forget," Dave snaps, though his expression doesn't change. Now, upon closer inspection, Karkat notices several fades scars crisscrossing his face. They're thin, straight-edged lines, and most aren't noticeable without a good, long glance.

"Seems to me you did," Karkat shrugs.

Dave opens his mouth to respond, only to close it. His shoulders sag. "Fine. I did. But that's no fucking crime, is it?"

"It certainly isn't," Kanaya responds. She reaches into her bag, and pulls out a bottle of hard apple cider. She explains herself as she sets it on the table. "I know Rose doesn't drink, but I was told you do from time to time. A certain someone said this is your favorite."

Dave practically pounces on the offer. He snatches up the bottle and opens it, using a bottle opener, which hangs from a carabiner hooked to one of his belt loops. He chugs it like a dehydrated castaway taking his first drink of water in years. After wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he nods. "Thanks."

"No problem," Kanaya hums.

"Well, then, I guess you two will be busy talking. I'm not interested, so..." Dave begins.

Rose cuts him off. "If you're going to hide in your room, at least take Karkat."

As he had before, Dave opens his mouth to respond. Ultimately, he decides against it. A disgruntled sigh escapes him, and he nods his head over his shoulder, as if to say, in the bluntest way possible, "follow."

* * *

 **DAVE STRIDER** lays on his bed. He bounces an old twenty five cent bouncy ball off the ceiling, and does his best to ignore the oppressively awkward atmosphere.

"Robert Frost?" When Dave looks towards Karkat, he finds him looking at his bookshelf. "What the fuck would a dense fuck like you have to do with Robert Frost?"

"Besides raising him from the dead?" Dave asks.

Karkat doesn't respond, he only continues to glare at Dave.

"I like poetry. Is that suddenly a fucking crime?" Dave shoots back. "Why the fuck are you looking through my books, anyhow?"

"There's not much else to do in here, is there?" As if to demonstrate, Karkat gestures to the mostly empty room.

The only pieces of furniture are a bed, a computer desk, and the bookshelf. The only item of any value whatsoever is Dave's laptop, which is buried beneath a pile of dirty laundry.

Even so, Dave feels the need to defend himself. "You could always just go back outside."

"I can hear Rose and Kanaya talking sickeningly sweet shit to each other from here, Strider! Like fucking hell I'm going out there." As if to demonstrate this further, Karkat folds his arms across his chest. He returns to looking through the bookshelf. "Joe Lansdale? Jules Verne? I'm amazed you have enough goddamned sense inside of you to read any of this."

"It's not like I had much else to do," Dave shrugs. He tosses the bouncy ball he'd been playing with aside, and wanders over to Karkat. "So, what? Do you get some sort of weird boner from fucking with people?"

"I— What? NO!" Karkat responds, his voice even louder than usual. "If anything, that's your deal. What's so inordinately amazing about pissing me off?"

"You have funny reactions," Dave admits this much without hesitation. "You're like a goddamned anime character. I'm fucking floored you haven't flipped your shit and gone full chibi on me yet."

"None of that made any sense," Karkat grumbles.

"Made sense to me," shrugs Dave. "So, what? We're just circlejerking the fuck out of each other?"

"I guess so."

"Sounds fun to me."

"Your definition of fun is irrelevant to anything I know of as fun."

"Really?"

"For me, the first step to having any semblance fun is getting as far as fucking possible from you as I can, you absolute ass-faced shit-slinging idiot!"

"Creative." Dave's expression doesn't change, as per usual, though he feels as if he should be smirking.

Karkat is obviously fuming. He looks about ready to punch Dave square in the jaw. "You're the most insufferable prick I've ever met! Every word you say makes me want to punch my way through my skull and rip out my cochlear implants. Did you know that?"

"I was getting the feeling." Dave shrugs. He prepares to say more, but is interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Before the two of you beat each other into bloody pulps, dinner is ready," Rose calls out, though she doesn't answer the door.

Both Dave and Karkat exchange pointed glares, only to decide that eating is more important than settling an arbitrary score.

* * *

 **ROSE LALONDE** hands her half-brother a wet plate, which she has just finished washing by hand. "You know, Karkat is most likely your soulmate."

"Really?" Dave feigns interest. He wipes the plate dry, then adds it to the stack of clean dishes. "Anything else to say about this amazing news flash, Rose?"

"Don't be a smartass." Rose offers a thin smile.

"I'm not."

Rose ignores the comment. "So, what? You'll just annoy your soulmate for the rest of both of your lives? There's a reason people have soulmates, Dave. Humans are innately social creatures. We need contact with others to survive, and—"

"I've heard this spiel three hundred goddamned times, Rose," Dave groans. He slams the next plate onto the top of the pile, though he's sure not to break it. "Look, he's not my soulmate. I never want to meet my soulmate. That's all fantasy shit."

"Explain Kanaya, then."

"I'm too cool for a soulmate," Dave says, though Rose knows he's bluffing. "Anyone who tried to be my soulmate would just fucking explode from awesome I am."

"You're afraid of ending up like Bro," counters Rose. Her voice is authoritative, though it remains soft. She wants to help her half-brother, not traumatize him. "That won't happen, of course, as there was far more at fault with Bro than a failed relationship."

"That ain't true," Dave huffs. He dries the last plate, and continues before Rose can say anything else. "I'm done with this topic, right? That's it. Fin. Close the fucking curtain on this one, kids, it's all wrapped up." He turns on his heel and waves, continuing, "I'm going to bed now."

"Suit yourself." Rose shrugs. She expected this reaction, though her goal wasn't acceptance. For now, all she needs to do is put her cards on the table. Dave has seen her hand, and, now, she knows he'll be thinking about it.


	7. Buachaille Ón Eirne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNING:** Some abuse is depicted in this chapter via dream sequence. If you wish to skip over it, skip the first section (Dave's, in italics).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A song by Celtic Thunder, traditional Irish.

_**DAVE STRIDER** stands in a dark room. A single, flickering light shines upon a rusty metal chair at the center of the space. It buzzes softly, though the electrical noise doesn't correspond with the flickering._

_He wears no shoes, and the exposed hardwood floor is rough. If this were real, he would be picking splinters out for years, perhaps even decades. But, from experience, Dave knows it's not. Nonetheless, he continues. He follows the recurring path, as he does every night, to the chair in the middle of the room._

_He sits._

_Suddenly, a man stands before Dave. He has the same angular jaw and pale skin, but his eyes are naturally brown. When he speaks, his breath reeks of alcohol and tobacco. A pair of ugly, pointy anime shades are clipped to the sweat-stained collar of his sleeveless undershirt. His soul mark is obviously visible, as it runs the entire length of his right arm. It's an eagle, with its wings spread wide. However, it's been covered by tattoos of flames and skulls._

_"You're late," the man's voice is low and rough, but, like metal pellets falling against pebbles, it's resonant. The man reaches out and slaps Dave._

_Dave accepts the punishment. He stares at the ground as a wet rag is pressed against his chest._

_"Make yourself useful and clean this place. The studio head is coming by tomorrow to discuss more puppet porn. I want this place fucking spotless." The man turns, though he pauses long enough to add, "And don't get any more bright ideas about running away again."_

_"I won't, Bro." Dave rises to his feet, though only after the man disappears. He steps forward, and a door appears before him. He opens it, revealing a luxurious penthouse apartment._

_He kneels down and begins to wipe the stone tiles by the front door._

_This is the same dream he's had almost every night since he was thirteen. He knows how it goes. He knows when Bro will return to berate him for a missed spot on the floor. He knows when he will be lead back to his old room, where he will subsequently be locked._

_And, it's the same as always. The white plaster walls are bare, and the worn carpet beneath his feet still reeks of spilled alcohol and piss. His bed is still little more than a mattress on the floor._

_Now, though, there's one more detail. When he enters his room, there's another man, and his identitity is unmistakable._

_"Karkat?" Dave stammers._

_With a disapproving huff, Karkat shrugs. He folds his arms across his chest and looks away._

_Meanwhile, the door to Dave's room shakes._

_"YOU GODDAMNED PIECE OF SHIT! YOU RUINED IT! I'M GOING TO KICK YOUR FUCKING ASS." A fist punches through the door._

_Then..._

* * *

**KARKAT VANTAS** has never been great at keeping a regular sleeping schedule. His nights are often interrupted by wandering thoughts and a burning need to do _some_ thing.

Tonight is one of these nights.

To occupy himself, he often goes to the park. It's only a few blocks away, and the path is well lit. Beyond that, everyone knows not to mess with him.

Tonight, he contemplates his current soulmate situation. He recalls advice from his father, which directed him to accept the flow of life and let it lead him. Nonetheless, he desires control. He wants knowledge and, above all, he wants to understand why Dave is so opposed to all things related to soulmates.

He stares at the stars, though they're of little interest to him. He finds astronomy boring and trite.

"Well, looks like someone else decided to wander around in the dark." A familiar voice, laced with a distinctive Texan drawl, catches Karkat's attention. He turns, and finds himself facing Dave.

He rolls his eyes and moves away from the wandering trail of smoke from his cigarette. "Do you really feel compelled to say something stupid every fucking time we meet?"

Dave shrugs. Though it's night, he still wears his shades. "It lightens the mood."

"There was no fucking mood to begin with, you dense motherfucker!" Karkat groans. He runs his fingers through his hair.

"Well, I'd say you're just as dense. Do you want to get stabbed to fucking death? You're just wandering out here like it's nothing."

"I do it all the time," Karkat growls. "What the hell are you doing out here?"

"I live in walking distance. I couldn't go to sleep." Dave's expression is blank, and his posture is just as enigmatic. He's tense, yet his muscles are relaxed. He holds himself upright, but his shoulders slouch.

A silence falls between them.

After a few minutes, Dave plucks the cigarette from his mouth. He crushes tt beneath his foot, extinguishing it. Then, to Karkat's surprise, he speaks up, "Rose told me once that soulmates began when the gods were lonely," he mutters.

"Really? And you remembered that?" Karkat asks, brows furrowed. While it's an insult on one hand, it's a question on the other. From what he could tell, Dave seemed like little more than a self-centered prick. Now, though, it seems he might actually have more to him.

"Yeah. I thought it was neat." He folds his arms and sits down in the grass.

Karkat, with little else to do, follows suit. "So, what? You and Rose have always lived together?"

"I was raised by my older brother, Bro. He died in a car crash when I was thirteen, and Rose's family took me in." Dave's face turns, allowing Karkat to see his profile. Dave's eyes, which look towards the night sky, are visible.

And Karkat feels a rush of warmth. For some reason, he's drawn to the passion behind the red eyes, and it seems as if there's more to learn from them. "Well, then... sorry."

"He was a throbbing anus," Dave shrugs.

Karkat doesn't press for more, though he's curious. Instead, he amply nods.

"Yeah. He taught me all I know, though, so I have to give him that."

"I guess that's fair." Karkat frowns.

Dave hums nonchalantly. He folds his hands behind his head.

Again, there's silence.

Eventually, Dave breathes a long sigh. He  sits up, brushes his hands off against his pants, and offers a short wave. "I've got to get back home before Rose finds out I'm gone." Then, without any further delay, he turns in his heel and walks away. As he departs, he sings to himself, perhaps unaware that anyone is paying attention.

 _"Little Eddie Mitty, born in Jersey City,_  
_Started singing when he was five._  
_Never knew his father, mother never bothered_  
_To catch his last name, fast as he came..."_


	8. The Safest Way into Tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol wow this draft has been sitting here for a year I’m a certified idiot

**ROSE LALONDE** studies a length of black silk. She rubs her fingers along it's surface and, after some time, she looks towards Kanaya. She smiles. "This should make a fine skirt.

"Yes, I plan on adding lengths of vertically aligned cotton to create a striped pattern." Kanaya pulls out her sketch, which shows her concept, and continues, "Its experimental, but I believe I can pull it off."

"I'm sure you can." Rose nods. She hands the notebook back, as she has little interest in it, and watches as Kanaya begins to lay out lengths of pre-cut paper guides. "So, you're still looking for a female model?"

"I suppose," Kanaya hums. "I've used myself as a reference, and plan to alter it as needed at a later date."

"That's fair." Rose continues watching, her fascination increasing by the minute. She finds herself captivated by Kanaya's precision and speed.

"You seem distracted."

Rose shrugs. "I'm thinking about Dave. He's grown increasingly reserved over the past few years, and I can't shake the feeling that I should do more to ensure his mental wellbeing."

Kanaya nods. "I would advise you to provide some space, at least for the time being. He'll come around."

"I'm sure he will, but he might need a bit of a push."

* * *

**DAVE STRIDER** sits at the edge of the small pond in the local park. He snaps subpar photos of the fish, which swim near the surface, and does some people watching.

He was recently paid a handsome sum for the last photo shoot, and he's now slotted to do another tomorrow. For now, though, he contents himself with his idle shenanigans.

He lays on the grass and inches towards the edge of the water. He sticks a finger in, watching with mild fascination as one of the fish nibbles his finger.

"Rose said to come check on you here," Karkat's voice comes from behind Dave. His hands are buried in his pockets, though a leash leads from the left pocket and to a sizable Dalmatian.

"Don't recall you having a dog," Dave answers, rising to his feet.

"It's my friend's. Sollux is out of town, and he wanted me to walk him." Karkat shrugs.

"So, Rose sent you?" While Dave loves his half-sister, he resents her constant meddling. He understands she's trying to help, but he often feels as if he lives in her shadow. She's more successful than him, to say the least...

"She's probably locking lips with Kanaya as we speak, but yeah." Karkat shrugs. He sits down, in he grass, beside the dog, and rubs its side. "Something about you constantly running off for random shit."

"I just do that sometimes." Dave shrugs. He wanders over, sits beside the dog, and casually joins in the petting session. "It's nothing to worry about."

"I don't really care. Tell it to Rose."

Dave nods. "I have. She doesn't really listen." He studies Karkat out of the corner of his eye, noting his long, prominent nose. "So... you're really just roommates with Kanaya?"

"Of fucking course," Karkat scoffs. "She's like my sister. Dating her in any capacity would be disgusting."

"Weird," tuts Dave, shaking his head.

"Not weird. I don't give a fuck about dating her. I'd rather stab out both of my goddamned eyes."

"But she's hot as hell."

"I'm gay," Karkat groans. "Gay. G-A-Y," here, he spells the word both aloud and with ASL. "How hard is that for you to get?"

"Not very," Dave mutters, suddenly feeling incredibly out of place. Bro had always warned him of "gay folk." He'd been raised to fear them, to see them as predators. But, Karkat... "You're gay?"

"YES! I'M GAY!" Karkat thunders, clearly not afraid to be heard. He steps forward, towards Dave.

Instinctively, Dave steps back. He raises his hands, ready to fight back.

Karkat, however, stops. He frowns, his brows furrowing in concern as he continues, "You okay, Strider?"

"Sure," mutters Dave, "Fine."

"What?" Karkat frowns. He tips his head to the left before continuing, "Can't hear you over here."

"Nothing's wrong," Dave repeats, louder.

Karkat nods slowly. He seems unconvinced, but he lets the topic go. "Fine. Cool. Uh..."

"Anyhow, she wanted me to talk to you. She paid me, too, so..." Karkat pauses. He chews on his bottom lip and, after some time, breathes a disgruntled sigh. "You don't know any sign language, do you?"

"Nope."

"Then sit your ass down. We're going to be working together a lot, so I might as well fucking educate you." As if to invite further discussion, Karkat drops into a cross-legged sitting position. He eyes you expectantly. "So?"

Dave follows suit. He figures he might as well humor him, as it'll get Rose off his back for a while. "So," he repeats.

Karkat ignores the comment. "We'll start with the most basic fucking thing I can think of. Let's go through the alphabet." He sits down in the grass, his legs crossed, and nods to the spot beside him.

Relictabtly, Dave sits beside him. He mirrors each letter, though he knows he’ll likely forget half of it by tomorrow morning. For now, he plays along; it’s not as if he has something better to do.

”So, your name would look something like this,” Karkat eventually says, offering a rapid-fire spelling. His fingers move with precision and speed, and it seems as if he blends letters together for ease and comfort. “You didn’t get any of that, though, did you?”

Fave blinks. He shakes his head. “Nope. Nothing.”

”God, why do I always end up with the absolute worst dumbasses possible?” Karkat groans, burying his face in his hands. He repeats the signs, going slower: a lowercase “D” shape; a closed fist, with the thumb resting, pointed up, against the side of the index finger; a ‘V’, formed with the middle and index fingers; and, finally, the thumb pressed against the heel of the palm, with all four fingers curled. “Did you get that? Please, for the love of god, say you got that.”

Dave nods.

Karkat, apparently satisfied with his teaching, nods. He rises to his feet, though Dave notes that he takes a moment to gather himself, using the nearby tree for support. And, perhaps, he noticed the staring, as he quickly tacks on further commentary, “You’re literally so fucking bad you ressurected my vertigo from the grave. Congratulations.”

Dave smirks, though he keeps the expression brief, and punctuates it with a half-added two-finger salute. “No problem, dude.”

”Ugh,” Karkat shakes his head, as if to clear his thoughts, before waving Dave’s commentary aside. “Whatever. I don’t have any more time to fuck around. I have to get back to work.” He turns swiftly and begins walking away, muttering under his breath as he goes, “Maybe I’ll try and drink away the bad taste you left in my mouth first, jackass.”


	9. Masquerade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is referencing the song from phantom of the opera because I’m a fucking nerd; why else would I still be churning out DaveKat in the year of our lord 2018? I typed this on my phone at midnight, as fucking usual, so let me know if you spot any typos

**DAVE STRIDER** goes about a week without having to interact with Karkat. It’s a blessing, in his opinion, being able to avoid him for so long. After all, avoiding Karkat means avoiding any of the odd feelings attached to him. Of course, that can’t last but so long. Dave is a photographer, and Karkat is the primary subject of his current professional work.

That being said, he’s at least studied some more sign language during the gap in contact, and he’s now slightly more confident in his ability to at least convey simple messages. (Not that he knows much more than the alphabet.)

The door is open, as Kanaya said it would be, and Dave knows where to go to prepare. Today, the area is set up as a study. The entire area is primarily dark brown, with the book spines providing splashes of subdued, earthy tones. Amidst this, clad in a somewhat plain-looking beige suit, is Karkat.

“You’re early again,” he says, his voice louder than usual. “Not that it matters to me.”

Dave shrugs. He focuses on setting up the equipment and formulating a plan for the shoot.

Karkat, meanwhile, seems to be in a talkative mood, as he continues, “So, what am I supposed to do?”

By now, with the camera in place, Dave looks up. He eyes the area over before pointing to bookshelf. He mimes reading a book.

A nod from Karkat indicates that he understands. He stands, and, again, Dave notes how he pauses afterwards, clinging to the armchair for a few seconds before continuing. When he reaches the bookshelf, he grabs the nearest book and begins flipping through it. “You know, you don’t have to watch me like a fucking stalker all the time.”

Dave rolls his eyes. He’s not entirely sure what Karkat expects for him to do—he can’t really say much to him—so, instead, he begins snapping pictures. And, after a handful, he stops. He looks up, takes out his phone, and types a message. Having recently acquired Karkat’s number from Rose, he sends the message.

any reason you take your implants off for photos or is it just a thing you do

Karkat, after fishing his phone from his pocket, pauses. “First of all, I can’t take off an implant. Hence the fucking word, you thick-skulled idiot. What I take off is the speech processor.” Having said this, he looks towards Dave, frowns; and rubs his chin, on which grows a formidable amount of fine, dark brown stubble. He lets forth a low, thoughtful hum. “I don’t know. I never really thought about it. I’ve only worked with two other photographers, and neither of them were doing fucking cartwheels whenever I had it on. Why?”

Again, Dave responds through text.

put it on and let me take a few photos to see how it looks

Though he offers an initially hesitant reaction, Karkat ultimately complies with the request. He briefly disappears into the back room, only to emerge with the processors in place.

Again, Dave begins to take photos. He directs Larkat around the room, offering him bits of information, though he finds that he needs to say little more than basic instructions to obtain optimal results. If he were to be honest, he’d say that Karkat is his favorite model; he’s easy to work with, and he knows how to communicate and express himself through his posture and body language.

After a few hours, the shoot winds to a close.

Karkat is quick to remove his jacket and roll up his sleeves, revealing a tangled web of scars on his right forearm. As he does this, he keeps his eyes on Dave. “You’re still staring at me, jackass,” he huffs. “Look, if you’ve got a fucking question, spit it out. Let me sate your incomprehensible, prying need for information.”

”I’m a photographer. I look at people for a living,” Dave counters.

Karkat, clearly unconvinced, rolls his eyes. Folding his arms across his chest, he supplies his own explanation for Dave’s behavior, “You think it’s weird, don’t you? I’m some sort of fucked over mutant, come straight from the shit-infested sewers to completely and utterly annihilate all expectations of normality.”

”I didn’t say that,” Dave shrugs. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a mint, and pops it into his mouth. “Fuck, I don’t remember saying much of anything, really.”

A grunt. The skepticism is so obvious, it seems to radiate outwards from Karkat, like heat from a fire. “You’re an enigma.”

”Well, damn, that’s a big word.” A moment of silence. After wandering over to the bookshelf to examine its contents, Dave changes the topic. It’s not a conscious decision; rather, he acts on a whim. “So, what sort of shit do you like to do?”

”Why would you care?” scoffs Karkat.

Dave shrugs. “Maybe I don’t. I’m just poking around for conversation, trying to avoid going back home to Rose.”

“Fair enough. Outside of editing, which I’m not really all that fucking enthusiastic about in the first place, I guess I like to read. I used to play some soccer, too.”

“Used to?”

“Wow. Okay. Here’s a fucking outrageous newsflash, aimed at the dipshit in the furthest row from the front of the classroom: nearly dying is really bad for your health, and generally results in some prime examples of things that don’t bode well for strenuous physical activity.”

Despite himself, and his usual stoic image, Dave laughs at Karkat’s over-the-top reply. “I’m not really sure what to make of all of that, but... Wait, when did you nearly die?”

“Did your brain only start to rot and expunge itself from your porous skull recently, or has this been an ongoing occurrence?” Karkat responds, his voice flat.

Playing along with the dialogue, Dave merely offers a faint hint of a smirk. “I don’t know. I guess it just can’t handle how fuckin cool I am.”

”Right, well, maybe it remembers me telling you I caught goddamned meningitis, you waterlogged pool noodle.”

The smirk disappears from Dave’s face. In all honesty, he doesn’t remember hearing this. He’s never been one to pick up on facts people drop about themselves. Likewise, he’s absolute shit at remembering things that don’t directly correlate to his job, and he still has to set reminders on his phone for those. “Oh. So, that’s what’s up with your arm?”

”Yeah.” A nonchalant shrug punctuates the statement. “It’s not really that big of a deal, now, so...” Another shrug. By now, Karkat is pointedly avoiding Dave’s gaze. Instead, he intensely studies a nondescript point on the hardwood floor.

Dave, meanwhile, takes the opportunity to pack his things. As he does this, however, he attempts to push the conversation onward. It’s not that he necessarily cares about Karkat’s life, but there’s much else to do, otherwise, but talk to him. “If you don’t mind me too much asking, what happened?”

“Don’t remember. I’m told it was one absolutely fucking gargantuan ordeal for a seven-year-old twit like me to survive with as little damage as I had.”

”Damage? What, is this a video game?” Dave goads his conversational partner.

Karkat takes the bait. He offers a hoarse, humorless snicker before responding. “No, dumbass. I mean I didn’t lose any major limbs or organs. My ears just nuked themselves to death.”

Dave nods. By now, he’s managed to pack the essentials. His camera is safely stowed away in his bag, and the rest of his equipment is fine to leave at Kanaya’s. Having had his fill of Karkat for the day, he offers a short wave. “Well, that’s all interesting as shit to know, but I’ve got a hot date with some McDonald’s takeout menu to go to.”

”Then don’t let me hold you up,” Karkat responds, gesturing towards the door, “And let the door hit you on the way out.”

* * *

**KANAYA MARYAM** isn’t exactly sure what she expected when she invited Rose to her favorite dive bar, but she’s not about to complain about luck favoring her. So far, the pseudo-date has gone perfectly. The conversation has been nothing. It pleasant, and the drinks have been delightful. (Notably, Rose ordered a virgin drink. Kanaya makes sure to remember this for her next outing.)

Currently, the pair are engaging in a friendly game of pool. Though Kanaya has never been much good at the game, Rose seemed interested in playing.

”So,” begins Rose, her statement briefly interrupted by the percussionary pop of the cue ball hitting another ball, “I understand you’ve just accepted a deal with Trollian to distribute your designs. Congratulations. You must be ecstatic.”

“They are one of the largest and most influential distributors of mid-tier clothing of various styles. Or... so I’ve heard.” Noting that Rose has stepped aside, Kanaya steps forward. She takes a shot, though she fails to put anything into the table’s pockets.

”Indeed.” Rose’s attempt fares much better; she sinks two balls. In accordance with the rules, she sets up her next shot, continuing, “They also provide attire for You Heard With Perd.”

”You watch that drivel?” Kanaya gasps, her heart nearly missing a beat.

Rose, however, is quick to calm hotness fears. She laughs. It’s a soft, gentle sound; it is neither brash nor disgraceful. “I would never dream of it. The content is far too shallow for me. Dave likes it, though.”

”Hm. Perhaps it’s a so-called ‘Man Thing’,” Kanaya theorizes, adding emphasis to her words with air quotes. To supplement her claims, she also provides her evidence, noting, “Karkat also enjoys it.”

”I could believe that. It is very likely another stupid male fascination.” Rose’s second shot is as successful as her first. She sinks a few more, leaving only two: a red striped ball and the eight ball. In a show of her prowess, she angles her shot so as to sink both in a single go. The red striped billiard ball goes down first, and is shortly followed by the conclusive eight.

An appreciative whistle escapes Kanaya. “I admire your mettle in this game. I’ve never been much good at it, myself.”

A sly grin works its way onto Rose’s face. She steps forward, takes Kanaya’s hands in hers, and makes her move, saying, “Well, then, let me teach you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~it’s july 25 happy birthday to MEEEEEE~~ I’m 22 and am now an Adult and no longer entitled to being the Birthday Girl, for adulthood is sad and party-hat-less


	10. Hikoukigumo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is the ending theme of The Wind Rises.

**DAVE STRIDER** , having only just arrived in Skaia less than a month ago, has no real friends. Sure, he has some internet friends, but he lacks any worthwhile physical companionship. The most he has is Rose, and that relationship has never been perfect. In fact, right now, he is sitting across the dining room table from her, listening to another of her so-called “talk sessions” with him.

“You do understand that you cannot avoid fate, right?” she asks. “Karkat _is_ your soulmate. There’s no arguing about that.” She sips at her coffee, levels a pointed glare at her half-brother, and sighs. “What do you have against him? He’s the only person you really know here, barring your employer and myself.”

”Oh,” Dave shrugs. His voice is flat and, as he continues, he removes his shades. He begins to polish the lenses against his shirt as he continues, “I ain’t got a thing against Karkat. He seems like a cool dude. He’s a little rude, shouty, and he doesn’t always pronounce things the right way, but he’s solid.” As if to emphasize his message, he nods. He replaces his shades, making sure that they’re correctly positioned before he folds his arms across his chest. “But, there’s no way he’s my soulmate. He’s not my type.”

Rose’s calm facade momentarily cracks. A snort of laughter escapes her. “Your type?” she counters, “And what, exactly, does that mean?”

“Real talk?” Dave asks the question, but he doesn’t wait for the answer, “Too short, too loud, can’t dress himself for shit, and he doesn’t seem to have much of a life outside of editing your writing.” As he lists each strike against Karkat, he counts it out on his fingers. When he’s done, he leans back, tilting the dining chair onto the back two legs.

“You’ve known him for a few days,” Rose counters. “Maybe you should ask him about that stuff. You’ll never get to know him, otherwise.”

Dave responds with a dismissive wave. He drops the chair back, stands up, and begins to leave. “Whatever, I have to go develop these photos. I’ll see you later.”

To his interest, Rose doesn’t attempt to call him back to the room. In fact, she says nothing.

* * *

 **KANAYA MARYAM** has known Karkat for years; in fact, she’s known him for most of her life. Growing up, they were neighbors. Before Karkat’s hospitalization, they’d often engage in make-believe detective adventures. Later, after his recovery, they would partake in long-winded literary discussions. It is for these reasons that the pair often confide in one another, though Kanaya often finds herself asking for help.

Today, however, is different.

Today, Karkat approaches her around lunchtime. He refuses to meet her gaze as he sits down on a spare stool.

Naturally, Kanaya looks up, peering over her drafting table to her friend. “Hello, Karkat. What seems to be the matter?”

”I’m still pissed about Dave,” he admits. He wrings his hands together and chews on his lip. “I mean... first of all, he’s an annoying fuck. Secondly, he doesn’t seem to take anything seriously.”

“At the very least, he takes his photography seriously. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have hired him,” interrupts Kanaya.

“Great!” Karkat sputters. A low growl rises from his throat, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Amazing! That’s one fucking thing that this brainless oaf can reliably do without making it into some sort of outlandish, roundabout joke!”

Though she knows Karkat is serious, Kanaya can’t help but snicker. “Youre being far too harsh on him. From his application, it seems he’s a pretty nice guy.”

”Right. I bet you and Rose have some sort of bet going already. How much is us hooking up worth to you?”

A thoughtful hum precedes Kanaya’s response. “Nothing, now, but I suppose that could change.”

”I doubt it.” Karkat’s frown grows. His brows furrow even more than usual, and his shoulders tense. “Look, I know you’re shitting rainbows and joy for your soulmate, and I’m happy for you, but mine must be the biggest goddamned tool on the planet.”

“Really, Karkat, I can’t offer you any advice beyond reaching out to him. Now, I’m terribly sorry, but I’m running a tight schedule for this design, so...”

Kanaya needn’t say more. Karkat gets the hint. He nods, buries his hands in his pockets, and slinks from the room. True to form, on his way out, he makes sure to quietly close the door.

* * *

 **KARKAT VANTAS** is not a fan of formal attire. Despite his side career as Kanaya’s primary male model, he has never once bought designer clothes. Rather, he prefers cheap comfort and ease of motion. As such, he’s chosen his favorite sweater (a black turtleneck, purchased for him by Kanaya two Christmases ago) and a pair of grey sweatpants. Today is his self-imposed day off, after all, and he’s not about to waste it by wearing uncomfortable clothing.

For the past few hours, he’s been birdwatching, a habit he picked up during his nine month stay in the hospital over a decade ago. He jots down information about the birds he sees, keeping the notes in a tattered faux leather journal. As fate would have it, however, his peaceful day is broken by a familiar voice. Or, rather, not necessarily a familiar voice, but a recognizable intonation and distinctly southern accent.

“Boring Town called, they said they wanted you back.”

Karkat turns abruptly, and he is met by the very person he most expected, but least wanted, to see. “You’re a real jackass, did you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” Dave shrugs. He leans against the back of the bench, which brings him into Karkat’s space. A distinct scent—a mix of moth balls, old wood, vinyl records, and tobacco—pollutes the air. When he speaks, the stench of tobacco only grows stronger. “What, you get bored of editing Rose’s bullshit?”

“Rose has some fucking great prose, the likes of which I doubt you could ever fathom, and I’m taking a day off. I’m not grammar correction software,” huffs Karkat. He reaches out, pushes Dave away, and tries to return to his birdwatching.

Dave, however, seems intent on having some sort of conversation. He returns, once again leaning on the back of the bench. “So, Rose said I needed to make some sort of effort to get to know you, since we’re soulmates—”

“As I’m fucking aware,” interjects Karkat.

“Yeah,” Dave continues, unperturbed, “Well, I didn’t really expect to see you around, and I was just doing my fuckin’ thing out here, wandering around and all...”

A long sigh accompanies the realization that Dave will not be leaving him alone any time soon. Karkat closes his notebook, puts his pen behind his ear, and folds his arms across his chest. “Fine, I’ll play along with your infantile game.”

”Not sure what you’re saying, dude, but okay.” Dave plops down on the bench, though he leaves ample room between himself and his acquaintance. “So, I’m thinking that we just ask each other questions. Sound cool?”

”Sounds like the social equivalent of being stabbed in the face.”

”Good to hear! We’re both on the same page. You go first.”

Another sigh. After taking a few seconds to calm the rising urge to punch Dave in the face, Karkat goes along with the strange request. “Where did you move from, because understanding your accent is like trying to understand someone with a mouthful of goddamned fire ants.”

”Texas,” Dave proudly announces. “I’m born and bred Texan. Yee-fucking-haw.” A smirk flashes across his features, though it disappears quickly. “My turn. What sort of shit does a boring fucker like you do for fun?”

“I read, I guess. I play video games.” Karkat shrugs. “What does it matter to you?”

Now, Dave shrugs. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a cigarette, and lights it.

”If you’re going to infect yourself with that shit, do it, but leave me out of it,” Karkat snaps.

”Huh?” Dave frowns.

”I’m doing my fucking damndest to not end up in the hospital again, so put that shit out or leave.”

”Oh.” There’s a moment’s pause before Dave tosses the cigarette to the ground and snuffs it out with the heel of his shoe. Afterwards, he picks it back up and pockets it. “So, I’m gonna take a shot in the dark and say you don’t like hospitals too much?”

”NO!” Karkat snaps. “That was the worst year of my life, you steaming pile of odorous shit!”

“Year?” Against Karkat’s expectations, Dave’s expression softens. Though it remains enigmatic, something about it seems to be warmer than usual. “Damn. I thought you said you didn’t remember it.”

“I was in a coma for a while, so, not really. But I remember coming to, maybe three months in.” Here, Karkat adds an indifferent huff. “It is what it is, I don’t really give a damn. But it wasn’t the most pleasant thing in the world. Sure, the people were nice, but being there was a pain in the ass.”

Dave nods. He pauses, as if to absorb the information, before he continues, “I’m not real big on them, either.”

“Most people aren’t.” Without really thinking about it, Karkat thumbs through his notebook. After a few moments of doing this, he poses a question, “Why do you care? You don’t seem like you’re all that excited about soulmates.”

“I’m not,” Dave admits. “I just want to prove Rose wrong.”

“Ah, spite, the great motivator,” Karkat mutters.

A soft snicker escapes Dave, though his expression remains the same. “Did I interrupt something, by the way? I just kind of assumed you weren’t doing much.”

”Yeah, you dipshit, I was birdwatching,” Karkat quips.

Dave nods. His gaze darts away from Karkat and lands on a nondescript rock. “Shit. My bad. I’ll be leaving you to your nerdy hobby, then.”

“Awesome.” As he says this, Karkat watches the blond rose from the bench and walk away.

Again, as Karkat has once previously witnessed, Dave seems to unconsciously sing to himself as he departs.

 _“He was off and flying,_  
_Times were really trying,_  
_Eddie and his mother, alone._  
_Soon, another mister, soon, a baby sister,_  
_Mamma kept swinging and Eddie kept singing...”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, comments and feedback are always welcome. also as usual, I typed this on my phone like a dumbass, so feel free to point out any typos. lyrics are from the same song as before (Goodbye, Eddie, Goodbye)


	11. You Can’t Take Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is from _Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron_ , because I recently found the CD sandwiched inside an old CD binder. [**here's a low-quality video of the song**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m0dnWnXPye4). as per usual, thanks for reading. comments and feedback and corrections are always welcome!

**DAVE STRIDER** studies the photos he’s developed. He pours over every one, scrutinizing the details and identifying the weakest of the bunch. Obviously, these undesirable photos are left out of the final set; they’re not thrown away, however. Rather, Dave saves them in a file, wherein he has always kept at least one copy of all of his rejected photos.

This is all very routine. He’s done this umpteen times before, and it has never once bothered him. This time is different, though. This time, he finds himself studying a particular set of photos with unparalleled vigor.

The images in question were taken about an hour into the shoot. Dave had instructed Karkat to try unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt. It’s a look that’s popular these days, and it always wins a few points for being vaguely risqué. Of course, Karkat has complied with the request. In doing so, he revealed his soul mark, positioned just above the middle of his collarbone, roughly level with the base of his throat. It depicts a spinning record, with its surface scratched. A round scar has marred its center, though it remains recognizeable.

Dave finds himself considering what this could mean. He always thought the mark would reflect his photography, yet...

He shakes his head, attempting to clear his mind. It doesn’t work.

Rather, he finds himself falling back on an old belief: that his soulmate doesn’t exist. Clearly, this indicates that Karkat is mistaken. There’s no way Dave can be his soulmate. He’d given to his pursuit of a musical career years ago. Why, then, would the mark show a record?

A nervous snicker comes forth and, after a few more moments of studying the photos, Dave tucks them into his folder of rejected prints.

 

Around noon, Dave’s work is interrupted by a knock on the door. Normally, he’d let Rose answer it. Today, however, Rose is busy doing other things, outside of the house, which means that Dave has to do it. He throws a faded denim jacket on over his bathrobe, pulls on some ironically ugly plaid pajama pants, and approaches the door.

When he opens it, he’s greeted with a familiar face. Karkat stands on the other side of the threshold, his briefcase clutched to his chest. When he sees Dave, his brows furrow. He sighs, and his breath rises as a cloud against the unseasonably cold air. “Where’s Rose?” he asks, jumping straight to the point.

“That’s a damned good question,” Dave hums, keeping his expression as stoic as it always is, “I don’t have a clue. If I did, I would’ve gotten her to answer the door.”

“Well, I’m talking to an idiot in his goddamned bedclothes, so I guess we’ve both been played for the fucking fool, because she said now would be a great time for me to go over my most recent edits,” Karkat grumbles. He lowers his briefcase to his side, eyes the surroundings behind Dave, and frowns. “Look, it’s cold out here, and my ride left. Won’t be back for another two hours. Can I just come in?”

“No skin off my ass,” Dave shrugs. He steps aside and prepares to return to his office, only for Karkat’s words to fully hit him. “Your ride? You don’t drive?”

”I am banned from driving due to unpredictable bouts of severe vertigo,” Karkat recites the words like a mantra, as if it’s a question he’s asked every day. “So, no, I don’t fucking drive. I’d be more than happy to drive you somewhere, though, you invasive jackhole.”

“I think I’ll pass,” Dave mumbles.

Karkat reacts with a triumphant smirk. He steps into the living room, sets his briefcase by the door, and removes his khaki overcoat, revealing the grey hoodie beneath. He hangs the coat on the nearby set of hooks.

Dave, meanwhile, studies the outfit. “Do you wear anything other than black and grey?”

”I neither want nor need your fashion advice,” Karkat snaps.

With a nod, Dave falls silent.

Karkat, meanwhile, takes a seat on the sofa. He makes no attempt to engage in any further conversation with Dave.

The blond, however, feels the need to speak up. “Hey, so, how did you end up being a model, anyhow?”

A look of annoyance flashes across Karkat’s face, though he seems to decide against acting upon it. He answers the question, albeit in a tone of pure exasperation. “I’m friends with Kanaya. That’s it. It’s not like I won any sort of competition.”

Dave nods. If he were to be honest with himself, though, he’d admit that Karkat is attractive. He is not, however, being honest with himself. Instead, he simply nods. “Okay. Fair.”

“I’m fucking flattered by your copious outpouring of support,” Karkat mutters.

”Any time.” Though he allows a smirk to briefly cross his features, Dave doesn’t let it linger. Once he’s sure the message has been received, his expression returns to its usual state of apathy. Likewise, his interest, too, returns to its former state. That is to say, he loses any sort of motivation to continue talking to Karkat. Nonetheless, he doesn’t want to make it seem like he’s ignoring the guy. Sure, he doesn’t really care for him, but he’s both going to snub Rose’s editor.

Thus, after briefly excusing himself to gather what he was working on, Dave remains in the living room. For a few minutes, he sorts through the best photos. These are the absolute cream of the proverbial crop, and Dave is prouder than proud of them.

Out of these, Dave’s favorite is a particularly striking photo, wherein Karkat’s cochlear implant processor is visible. (It was during this shot that Dave also realized that there’s only one, on the left side.) The shirt has been buttoned all the way up, though the jacket remains open. One of Karkat’s hands is in his pocket, while the other holds a book. His face is presented in profile view, and he looks pensively into the distance, as if searching for the answer to a deep question, such as the meaning of life.

“I don’t remember that one,” Karkat points out. When he notices Dave looking towards him, he looks away. He reaches up and smooths out some of his wild black hair, pausing only when his hand briefly jostles his speech processor. “When did you take it?”

“We were between poses,” Dave explains. “I just snapped a photo while you were setting up the next pose, and it worked out.” A shrug punctuates the statement. “Fuck if I know how some of my best shots come out, honestly.”

“Oh.” Karkat’s voice is quieter than usual. His brows furrow less than before. “That’s... it’s a really good photo.”

“Thanks,” again, Dave shrugs.

Karkat, meanwhile, wrings his hands together. “Could you send me a copy? I need a new profile picture for PesterChum.”

“Mmmm,” Dave hums. Normally, he’d say no. He doesn’t hand out his photography for free use. Something about Karkat’s posture, however, makes him feel differently. There’s an earnest honesty to it and, for some reason, Dave finds himself nodding. “Fine. I’ll send it to you later.”

”Thanks,” Karkat says. He opens his mouth, as if to say more, only to be interrupted by the front door opening.

Rose steps inside.

Dave, now freed from the shackles of social obligations, rushes back to his room.

* * *

**ROSE LALONDE** , having spent many hours taking note of Karkat’s commentary, stares at her handiwork. Multicolored sticky notes are pinned to a cork board, each referencing both the relevant page and the appropriate feedback. A thoughtful hum escapes her. At this moment, there are simply too many comments for her to appropriately address each one. For now, she'll have to resort to some old-fashioned combing. She has a plan set forth, with the schedule pinned alongside the notations. For now, however, she prepares for something completely different.

She turns away from the board and studies herself in the mirror, smoothing out her pastel pink suit jacket. “Does this look acceptable?” she asks, eyeing the full-length mirror on the back of the door to the guest bathroom. Reflected against this is her half-brother, who is currently lounged out upon the sofa. He bounces a ball—the sort that one might receive from a twenty-five cent vending machine—against the ceiling. “Dave?” she prompts.

A loud pop. The ball bounces off of Dave's forehead, and he curses. After recovering from the shock, he sighs. “I guess? I ain't a fashion expert. Your soulmate is.”

“And that's exactly why I'm asking, David,” Rose mutters. After applying a tastefully thin layer of black lipstick, she tuts. “I'd rather not appear for a date with my _fashionista girlfriend_ dressed like...” Here, she pauses. She pointedly eyes Dave's reflection over, eventually concluding, “Well, like you.”

This comment rouses a guffaw from Dave. After choking on what Rose can only assume to be his own spit, he offers her a bug-eyed stare. “And what the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean? I dress sharper than the edge of the most finely tuned obsidian blade. Fuck, I can out-dress anyone on any goddamned red carpet. Fuckin' watch me. I—” Noting the reflection of his half-sisters smirk, he sputters to a halt. Eventually, in a low growl, he concedes, “Fine. But I dress better than Bozo McCrank.”

“You have similar styles, actually. They're just different iterations of one another.” At this point, Rose checks the time on her phone. She pockets it, turns, and grabs her bag. “Anyhow, it appears to be time for me to depart. I shall return eventually.”

“Oh, you can't fuckin' imagine how much goddamn _joy_ that promise brings me. Look at me. Behold as I jump and rejoice, giddy that you'll come back to your own house.” As most things from Dave are, this sarcasm is delivered in a tone of pure apathy.

Rose, meanwhile, shakes her head. She has been pestering her half-sibling to work on emoting more, and it seems her advice is—as usual—being gleefully ignored. Right now, though, she doesn't have time to worry about this. Now, she has to leave. Rather than berating Dave, she shoots a dose of himself back at him. “And I shall wait with baited breath for the moment that I return, and see my loving brother patiently standing by for our reunion.” Again, she flashes him a wicked smirk.

He retorts with a low growl. “Just go, make out with your soulmate, Rose. I won't wait up for you.”

“Wonderful!” Rose proclaims, her smirk turning into a genuine smile. “Be sure to lock the door before you retire to your man cave.”

“I ironically called it that _once_!” Dave sputters as his face begins to turn a pale pink.

Rose shrugs. She savors the taste of victory and, with a small wave, she makes her way to the door. “Farewell for now, dearest David.” As she steps outside and closes the door behind her, she hears him trying to counter her. Unfortunately for Dave, she doesn't pay the reply much attention; she's unaware of what he says. And, to be honest, she is wholly content with not knowing; as long as Dave is bristling like a porcupine, she's happy.


	12. I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you've never played fallout, here's [**link to the Ink Spots song**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6l6vqPUM_FE).

**KARKAT VANTAS** finds himself performing a neck-snapping double take. His mind boggles, dizzyingly so, at the image before him.

Dave Strider, as usual, has arrived for a photo shoot. Today, however, he doesn't wear his usual attire. His red and white baseball shirt is replaced by a formal, heavily starched button-up shirt, over which he has a vivid red suit jacket. Instead of jeans, he wears black slacks. They are made of a shiny material, similar to silk, and match his bow tie. His usual shades have been replaced by similarly styled aviators, with dark rose-tinted lenses and thin golden rims.

Though Karkat would never admit it, he he firmly believes that Dave cleans up well. The new outfit shows more of his muscle. It complements his figure, and the rims of his shades bring out the slight golden color of his otherwise pale hair. Of course, this can never be known.

So, instead, Karkat insults him. “What's with the getup? Did Kanaya's scheduling overlap with a funeral?”

Dave, in return, shrugs. His eyes are a bit more visible through these shades, and Karkat can see him studying the surroundings.

Today, the pair have been set up outside, in Kanaya's orchard. Fluffy white clouds populate a perfect blue sky, and the sun casts gentle shadows across yellowing grass. A slight breeze stirs, and, if it weren't for Dave, the world would be perfect.

“You didn't mind wearing the processors last time, did you?” Dave poses the question with an unprecedented amount of sincerity. His brows furrow, and the edges of his lips twitch downward. “Kanaya liked them. She said that we'll need to take some without it to satisfy the other magazines, but a few loved them.”

Karkat frowns. Now, it's his turn to quirk his brows. “You're featured in magazines? Like, people get your goddamned photos, look at them, and say, 'Yeah, this bastard's shit is perfectly fit for our widely circulated publications.' I'm fucking floored.”

Surprisingly, the comment seems to get under Dave's skin. A look crosses his face, and it resembles something akin to pain. “I'm a professional photographer. It ain't a hobby, y'know?” Despite his expression, his voice remains as flat as it always it. His stance is similarly neutral. “I mean...” He rubs the back of his neck. “I'm no big shot, but I have some regular publishers.”

Karkat nods. A small pang of guilt rises within him, though he quickly quashes it. “So, what're we doing today?” He looks down, to his pale brown suit, and adjusts its contrasting velvet shawl lapel. He tugs at the sleeves, rubbing a thumb over the elaborately designed gold-plated cuff embellishments. “All I know is Kanaya wants something earthy. That's what she said, and that's what I planned for.”

Dave seems to agree with this, as he nods. There's something more, though, because he also tacks on a thoughtful sigh. “Yes, we're doing some autumnal promotions. She wants them ready for next year.” At this point, he reaches into his pocket. From here, he produces a cigarette and a silver lighter. He places the cigarette between his lips, lights it, and spends a few minutes in silence, pensively nursing the paper roll of tobacco. Eventually, he seems to settle on something. As he begins to set up his tripod, he speaks up. “I see you're wearing your processors now. You want to do the ones with it on first, or without?”

A shrug. Karkat holds his hands up, at chest level, with the fingers loosely splayed out flat and the palms facing his body. He brushes the tips against one another a few times. As he does this, he verbalizes the phrase, “Whatever.” When he's done, he buries his hands in his pockets. “I don't give a fuck what we do first. That's your freaky little prerogative, not mine. You're the artist, I'm your reluctant but captive dumbass model.”

“M'kay,” Dave, too, shrugs. He pulls the cigarette from his lips long enough to expel a smoke ring. “Let's go without it, then we'll switch.”

Following these instructions, Karkat removes the external parts. He gently pulls away the behind-the-ear piece before detaching the primary processor, which is held in place with a magnet. The world goes silent, and he eyes Dave over.

From here, the shoot continues as usual. Eventually, Dave signals for him to put the processor back on.

Sound returns, and Dave’s voice is the first recognizeable noise. “These are good so far. You’re not bad at this whole modeling shit.”

“Body language is kind of a big fucking deal in sign language,” Karkat mutters, rolling his eyes. He lets his arms drop to his sides and leans against one of the many apple trees. “And, this might be a big fucking shock to your oblivious ass, but I kind of use sign language a lot.”

“I don’t see you use it much,” Dave admits. Then, there’s a click.

Karkat remains in place, never moving from his pose. “I don’t often do it around people who can hear. They don’t get it, so there’s no point.”

Dave nods.

 _Click_.

Karkat shifts. He crosses on arm across his chest, presses his back to the tree, and stares at a passing cloud.

Dave, meanwhile, continues his usual rambling. “Have you always known it?”

“Nope. Ten-year-old Karkat Vantas got the fucking exclusive pleasure of relearning communication, but with a whole new language.” Memories flood into his mind. By continuing to speak, he prevents them from fully forming. “You learn pretty fucking fast through immersion, and I can’t really think of any more extreme immersion than that.”

There’s a pause. Where Karkat expects to hear a click, he, instead, hears Dave. “Oh... Sorry.”

Karkat shakes his head. He groans. “That’s not what I’m looking for, you soggy newspaper. I’m just answering your question. I...”

The world seems to shift beneath his feet. Karkat groans. He leans his weight back, trying to sink into the tree, but it seems that this support is moving. Of course, that can’t be possible... But...

“You okay over there, dude?” Dave calls.

Karkat grunts. Against his better judgement, he stumbles forward. The earth feels like sand, and the sand is moving. It falls away from him and recedes, as if being pulled by the tides.

”Dude?” Dave speaks up again.

By now, however, Karkat knows what’s happening. He resigns himself to the fact and prepares...

* * *

**DAVE STRIDER** has a long-standing dislike of blood. It doesn’t matter if it comes from him or from someone else; if it’s blood, it’s going to gross him out. Over time, and with the help of little more than sheer necessity, he’s learned to control what was once an outright phobia. Now, he can at least help someone who is bleeding instead of freezing in place.

As it turns out, this was a good call. Right now, he finds himself using up some of the first aid kit he always totes around with him.

The scrapes on Karkat’s palms aren’t anything near serious wound, but they’re enough to require some attention.

“Ugh. Fuck,” Karkat mutters. He’s sprawled out on the grass, and his hands are in Dave’s lap as the latter bandages them. “That was fucking humiliating.”

“Mhm.” Dave focuses most of his attention on the task at hand. He disinfects the scratches and removes some stray pebbles. Though he is listening to what is being said, he doesn’t have the energy to respond; beating back his fear is already taking up most of  his daily allotted amount of composure.

“Jesus. Fuck. Ugh. I’m... OW! SHIT!”

Dave offers an apologetic half-smile. By now, the left hand is ready for bandaging. Once this is done, he allows himself a moment to relax and avoid looking at the sticky red substance, which now costs his own hands. “Sorry... What the fuck just happened? You just flipped your shit like the worst ballerina to ever be kicked out of the ballet academy.”

“You forgot that, too, huh?” Karkat growls. He rolls his eyes. “Vertigo. It’s a side effect. Happens every now and then, but usually not in front of the world’s biggest goddamned tool.”

“Rude, but I’m mildly flattered,” Dave admits. A long sigh escapes him, then he begins to work on the right hand.

There are fewer injuries here, and it takes only a minute or two to complete. Afterwards, Dave brushes off his own hands and stands. “Guess the shoot’s over. It ain’t a time-sensitive thing, so we can come back to it later. Why don’t we skedaddle inside and get you washed up cleaner than a kid’s mouth after dropping F-bomb in front of momma?”

“You don’t make any goddamned sense.” The words escape Karkat as he staggers to his feet. For a few minutes, he stands still. Then, when it seems that he’s satisfied that the spell has passed, he follows Dave.

* * *

**KANAYA MARYAM** enters her living room, as she often does, carrying a steaming cup of what might as well be creamer with a little bit of coffee. When she enters the room, however, she finds an unusual sight, which just so happens to be a somewhat dazed Karkat Vantas sitting across the sofa from a disinterested Dave Strider.

Of the two men, the latter is the first to speak. He lowers his shades slightly, waves, and offers a disaffected, “‘Sup.”

“Not much,” Kanaya says. She sips at her coffee. “I assume we had a bit of an accident?”

“Yeah, we sure did.” An oddly sage nod accompanies Dave’s statement. When paired with the lack of emotion on his face, it has an unnerving effect. “I cancelled the shoot, for now. That cool with you?”

“Of course. Karkat’s safety is the utmost priority.” At this point, Kanaya eyes her friend over.

Aside from a larger scowl than usual and some light bandaging on his hands, he’s fine.

This revelation releases some of the tension in Kanaya’s shoulders. She smiles. “It happens. Roll with it, I suppose. Karkat, do you feel alright?”

“Aside from my fatally wounded pride, I'm fucking fantastic. Not the worst fall I’ve had.”

The statement elicits a reaction from Dave. When he responds, concern subtly laces his features. His voice is softer than usual, his accent, stronger. He stutters slightly. “Y-You’ve fallen before this?” A nervous laugh poorly masks his confusion. “What? A... are you ninety, or somethin’?”

”My right ear’s completely shot.” Karkat states. “The inner ear got fucking wrecked. It’s absolutely trashed. The absolute best part about this whole fucking parade of bullshit is that the part that regulates balance checked out of the hotel with the inner ear, so...” Here, Karkat shrugs. He folds his hands behind his head. “Shit happens, eh?”

”Yeah...” Now, Dave falls silent. He seems to turn inward.

Karkat, meanwhile, takes the opportunity to glance at his roommate. “Get any designs done?”

“I did,” Kanaya smiles. “They’re secret, though, so don’t tell anyone. I am saving them for a dramatic reveal near the end of autumn.”

“I don’t know shit about the industry, so it sounds like a good plan to me.” A shrug punctuates this statement.

Dave, meanwhile, begins to check his bags, presumably making sure he has everything. As he does this, he speaks, though he never looks up. “Well, it’s been great, but I’ve got to get going.” With unnecessary vigor, he zips the bag closed. He stands, glances briefly at Karkat, then, to Kanaya. at the conclusion of this affair, he offers a stiff wave. “I’m just going to let myself out, ‘Kay?”

”Farewell. Thank you for helping Karkat,” Kanaya says.

Karkat offers a different message, quipping, “Hope to not see you any time soon in my general vicinity.”

The door clicks shut, and both Kanaya and Karkat exchange confused glances.


	13. Hotel California

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I hope I don’t have to link to this song. Everyone knows this song right? Right????

**DAVE STRIDER** stands in the shade of one of the park’s larger trees. He’s no botanist, so he doesn’t know what type of tree it is. What he does know is that its branches provide excellent patterns for some Bokeh experimentation.

He’s taken at least a dozen photos so far, but none of them are really capturing the emotion he’s going for. Then again, he’s not entirely sure what he wants to be doing right now. His stomach flutters, and his mind keeps wandering back to Karkat.

And, as if summoned by the sheer force of these ponderings, there’s comes a familiar voice, muffled soft consonants and all. “Do you actually love in this park, and just use Rose for a cover story?”

Dave jumps. He turns, his muscles tense, and prepares for impact, only to realize where he is and who is speaking. He calms. “Yeah. I’m the crazy vagabond with a fuckin’ sack full of cans and a city made of trash. I’m the mayor of Cantown, and my citizens are all crudely made sculptures, crafted lovingly out of wax cheese wrappers.”

Karkat opens his mouth to respond, closes it, opens it, then closes it again. For several seconds, there’s silence, then, he finally expresses himself. “What the absolute fuck?”

”Want me to repeat it?” asks Dave.

“GOD! NO!” Karkat practically begs. He shifts from one foot to the other. “Look, I guess I should thank you for helping me out a few days ago.” Karkat frowns. His eyes travel downward, and, eventually, they lock onto a particularly strange-looking leaf. “I mean... that’s kind of why we fired the last photographer.”

Assuming his is a joke, Dave laughs. It’s a short affair, and it’s more of a snicker than a true laugh, but it gets the point across. “What? He push you over or something?”

“Actually, he just kind of left me there...” Now, it seems as if Karkat is trying even harder to avoid eye contact. He rubs his hands together and turns away from Dave. “Last time, it was pretty bad. I was literally out of it for a while, and the photographer was nowhere to be fucking found. Great guy, I guess. He took good photos.”

”Oh.” Dave frowns. “I’m... sorry.”

“You keep saying that,” Karkat snaps. “You keep fucking saying that, and I’d love for you to stop. It’s not a situation that needs an apology. I do not require that you respond to every mildly upsetting thing I say with a receipt for one apology.”

”Oh,” repeats Dave. “S—” he catches himself. “Is that why you came here?”

“Actually, I came because I’m tired of editing.” At this point, Karkat sits in the grass. He closes his eyes and lays down, folding his still-bandaged hands behind his head. “You?”

“Bored,” Dave shrugs. Seeing Karkat laying down inspires him to do the same. The grass is cool and dry, as this autumn hasn’t been blessed by any sort of reliable rain. The dirt beneath is similar, packed down hard, and crumbly. “I wanted to do some Bokeh shit.”

“Is... that some sort of new drug? Did I hear you right?” Karkat frowns.

Here, it dawns upon Dave that he’s on Karkat’s bad side. He gets up, moves to the left of his conversational partner, and returns to the ground. “Yeah, you Heard right.” As he’s feeling exceptionally helpful today, Dave spells it out in sign. B-O-K-E-H. It’s much slower than Karkat’s usual speed.

Nonetheless, the other man nods appreciatively. “Bokeh?” He says, as if trying the word for himself.

”Yeah it’s like...” A beat. Dave tries to think of a way to explain it. He cuts out the technical details of focus and lens correction and all that sort of funky jazz. Instead, he settles on an introductory textbook style exposition. “You know those photos with fuzzy little balls of light in the background?”

After a second, Karkat nods.

“Yeah, those fluffy things of light are called Bokeh. In fancy photographer terms.” Dave shrugs. He pulls out a cigarette and puts it between his lips, but  he ultimately runs out of steam before he lights it. So, instead, he lets it sit there. “They’re fun to fuck around with. You can do some crazy shit with them. The right types of lights can make all sorts of patterns. Get the right setting, and you could probably make a huge Bokeh penis. It’d be a masterpiece to rival all art.”

“Thanks for the lesson,” Karkat says. His voice seems to teeter on the edge between disgusted and intrigued. “Do you always spew bullshit like this?”

“Pretty much.” At this point, Dave pauses. He looks to the sky, squints, and adjusts his shades. “Halloween is pretty soon, ain’t it?”

Karkat frowns. He runs his fingers through his hair, which dave can’t help but think is remarkably soft. “Yeah. I... um. There’s some sort of stupid party that my dumbass shitlord friends are holding. I guess you could come if you want to. Kanaya was going to, but it turns out she has an interview to give around then.”

Dave offers a snort of laughter, though he immediately regrets it. As he forces down a rising blush, he counters, “What? You two have some sort of stupid couple’s costume going on? Is one of you a socket and the other is a plug?”

“We are not dating.”

The response is cold enough to send a shiver down Dave’s spine, and he resolved to never bring up the topic again. Instead, he shifts directions. “When is it?”

”When do you fucking think? Is your skull filled with rot-riddled potatoes?” Karkat shoots back.

The blush tears its head again; this time, Dave can’t stop it. Instead, he turns away from Karkat. “Okay. Sure. Fair.”

“It’s at 6:00, by the way. I’ll send you the details. Rose already gave me your contact info.”

Though he should be annoyed, Dave finds that this was fully expected. He nods. “Also fair.”

“Yeah.” Karkat stands. He stretches his arms above his head and yawns. “I might as well get back to my job, though, so have fun laying on the ground like the fucking fool you are, Strider.” He waves, turns, and abruptly departs.

* * *

**ROSE LALONDE** stands in the middle of a fairly standard-issue costume store.

Kanaya is Nearby, studying some of the cheaper apparel.

Rose, however, is busy snickering at the full costum me sets. Much of it is hilariously rebranded pop culture. Forest Warrior (Link), Cute Octopus (obviously a Squiddle), and Plumbing Man (Mario) are some of the best. She also snaps a few pictures to show Dave: Scary Father (Darth Vader), Child Animal Enthusiast (Ash Ketchum), and Unknown God (a strange costume comprised of a green shirt, brunette wig, and orange face paint are some of the highlights).

“I see you’re enjoying yourself,” Kanaya comments.

Having neglected to pay attention to her soulmate for the past half an hour, Rose jumps at the sudden interruption. She turns quickly and rolls her eyes. “I suppose I am. Care to join me, or will you continue purchasing outfits to take apart for cheap materials?”

“Why not both?” Kanaya counters, holding aloft an outlandishly gaudy princess dress. “I brought this over to ask you if you’ve ever seen anything quite as hideous as this.”

“Never in my life,” Rose says, solemnly. She shakes her head. Then, taking Kanaya’s hand, she leads her to one of the odd knockoff products. This particular set contains a short skirt, a studded shirt, fake nails, and an oversized pencil prop. Across the top, the label indicates that it is a multifunctional costume: Fashion Designer / Sexy Artist / Sexy Architect.

After exchanging glances, both Kanaya and Rose break out into a fit of laughter. Both are fully aware of the few people who recognize Kanaya, and are now snapping pictures of their brush with celebrity. But, neither care.

“Truly,” Kanaya manages, only after the laughter has calmed, “This is the most inaccurate costume. I suppose I am obligated to wear it, now.”

“To where?” Rose asks.

“I was recently booked for an interview with the Skaia Fashion network. It’ll be aired on Halloween, hence why I have brought you along.”

”Oh?” Though she is normally a professional when t comes to deducing meanings, she can’t quite grasp this statement. “Why would that be, exactly?”

“Well, I figured we could wear matching outfits. What better way to publicly introduce my soulmate?” Kanaya beams.

Rose, meanwhile, feels heat rising to her cheeks. She, too, smiles, albeit sheepishly. “Really?”

”Why, of course,” Kanaya nods.

“Then I supposed I should get the matching costume,” Rose winks. From a nearby hook, she pulls the ‘Devilish Runway Model’ costume, which features horns, a tail, and a wildly ugly dress.

 

When Rose returns home, she’s greeted by her half-brother. He’s sprawled out on the cough, legs dangling over the armrest, with a Nintendo Switch in hand. Naturally, she questions this. “Where did you get that, Dave?” she asks, doing her best impression of a concerned mother.

Dave, in return, shrugs. He pauses his game, raises his shades, peers over the top of the console, and returns to his blissful world of rudeness. “Karkat,” he says.

”Wonderful. And how did you get it?” Rose elaborates, knowing, now, that this will be a long game of pulling teeth.

“We chatted at the park.” Dave continues to refuse eye contact.

Of course, forcing him to engage in any sort of eye contact will only cause him to shut down. So, Rose allows him to continue gaming as she presses him, feeling a whole lot like she’s juicing a fresh, annoying, and very stupid orange. “And?”

“I followed him back to his place and we chatted some more.”

“That’s just stupendous. _What? Else_?”

Perhaps, now, Dave realizes that Rose is getting annoyed. He spits out the rest. “Okay, fine. I figured I could get the clueless schmuck to loan me a sick-as-hell video game console and told him I’d leave him alone if he let me borrow it for a few days.”

”DAVE!” Rose practically shrieks. She buries her face in her hands and, when she responds, she can’t hide her exhaustion. “You are a once in a lifetime oaf. Dave Strider.”

Here, Dave nods. “Thanks,” he says, dismissively, “I try my best.”

Rose, meanwhile, leaves her brother to his game. She trudges off to her room and opens PesterChum. She sends a message to Kanaya, and the pair spend the next few hours bemoaning the collective cluelessness of their respective idiots.


	14. All Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by smash mouth  
>  **WARNING:** this _does_ include a few pesterlogs, all featuring dave (this is a pretty dave-centric chapter tbh). for grammar and accessibility i've forgone dave's "no punctuation" thing quirk but only for apostrophes and i've also added apostrophes to jade's text  
>  as always, comments and feedback are always welcome!

**DAVE STRIDER** stands in the middle of a run-of-the-mill pop-up costume store. His hair is tousled; his mood, foul; and his patience is wearing thin. According to a PesterChum message, the Halloween party is—despite being exclusively for adults—a costume party. Well, obviously, that puts a damper on things. After all, Dave can’t have his style cramped by some shitty dime store wardrobe. No, he won’t sacrifice fashion, not even for a holiday.

“What about this?” an equally haggard Rose speaks up. She holds aloft a cowboy costume. It is quite obviously supposed to be McCree, from _Overwatch_ , though the packaging says ‘Spunky Future Cowboy’. “Is this acceptable to you?”

A loud groan escapes Dave. He runs his fingers through his hair. “No! It ain’t! I can’t go to a party dressed like that and come out with my dignity intact, Rose. Do you see the pants on that thing? They’re tight as fuck, and not in the good way.” To punctuate his statement, Dave folds his arms across his chest. His brows are furrowed, and his posture radiates a stubborn assuredness. 

Rose, meanwhile, returns the costume to its place. Afterwards, she turns to her half-brother and, now fuming, she counters, “You’re going to an adult Halloween party. I doubt anyone there will be sober enough to even understand what you’re dressed as, much less remember it. Just pick a fucking costume, Dave.”

“Did... did you just say ‘fuck’?” Dave sputters, his voice softened by shock. “Damn, I’ve really pissed you off, huh?”

Rose groans. She covers her face with her hands, then lets forth a muffled scream. “We have been in here for TWO HOURS, you absolute train wreck. Please, just pick something so we can go home.”

“Okay. Fine. Fine,” Dave says, raising his hands in the air. He pauses, stares at the wall of costumes, and picks one at random. He glances to the label; greaser seems like an acceptable disguise. He tosses it to Rose, allowing himself to dig his wallet from his back pocket before taking it back. “Okay. Fine. This is good.”

A low growl escapes Rose. Her fists are held so tightly that her nails dig into her palms. Nonetheless, she silently follows her brother to checkout.

* * *

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 19:25 --

TG: yo so the party  
TG: this ain't  
TG: like  
TG: some sort of *date* right

CG: God, no. I'd never stoop to that level. And I sure as hell wouldn't date *you*, of all goddamned people!  
CG: You're so fucking self-inflated that I could take a pin to you and you'd enough hot air to propel your pompous ass out of this shitty planet's atmosphere.

TG: cool so is there a limit on costumes  
TG: i mean like  
TG: is there something i can't wear

CG: ... don't be a fucking asshole. Don't come in dressed like a racist caricature.

TG: okay cool  
TG: so that means my costume is cooler than the smoothest emperor penguin at the center of the arctic circle

CG: What the hell does that even mean?

TG: it means that i am awesome  
TG: my costume is sick  
TG: check out my rad beats  
TG: and don't be a dick

CG: You make it really *really* hard to fulfill that last request. You just exude 'kick my ass' vibes, honestly.

TG: you're mistaking awe and a desire to beat me up

CG: First of all: no, I am not. I *know* what is awe-inspiring. The colors of the morning sunset over the gaping chasm we call the Grand Canyon is awesome. You? You are the exact fucking opposite.  
CG: Secondly: is there any reason that you're bothering me? I'm trying to work.

TG: oh yeah  
TG: the strider don't just mosey on in without a plan  
TG: what time is the party

CG: It starts at 7:00 PM on Halloween.

TG: cool cool  
TG: you need a ride  
TG: cause i remember you said one time you can't drive

CG: HA!  
CG: Not from you, dumbass.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG]ceased pestering  turntechGodhead [TG] at 20:00 --

TG: oh  
TG: m'kay  
TG: peace out crankypants

\-- carcinoGeneticist  [CG] is offline, and will receive your messages next time they log on! --

* * *

\-- gardenGnostic [GG] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 20:12 --

GG: hey there, dave!  
GG: how's it going in skaia? everything peachy?

TG: shrug emoji

GG: aw. :(  
GG: the kinda cute guy still getting on your nerves?

TG: the way you said that sounds real gay  
TG: not like  
TG: gay like bad  
TG: like  
TG: gay like the literal meaning

GG: happy!?

TG: no the other gay

GG: ooooh.  
GG: that didn't answer my question, you know.

TG: oh  
TG: yeah he is still being a major ass  
TG: he just doesn't take shit from anyone  
TG: and i only said he was cute *once*

GG: well, you never told me his name! so i don't know what to call him.

TG: oh  
TG: i didn't

GG: was that a question?

TG: ye

GG: oh! then, yeah! you never told me! :o

TG: ye  
TG: his name's karkat  
TG: weird name right

GG: i think it sounds great!  
GG: oh, i meant to tell you that my cacti farm is doing great! :D  
GG: i was wondering if you wanted one. i can easily ship one to you.

TG: how the actual fuck're you gonna ship a goddamned cactus  
TG: really  
TG: that fucker will just pop all the bubble wrap  
TG: the bubble wrap homewrecker is here  
TG: and he's a cactus

GG: very funny. it's actually pretty easy. I'll just use packing peanuts.  
GG: so, do you want this cactus or not?

TG: i don't even know what the child looks like  
TG: how do i know if we're compatible

\-- gardenGnostic [GG] sent [a picture](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/61ec6C1F2yL._SY355_.jpg)! --

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] viewed the picture! --

TG: heh  
TG: that cactus looks nasty  
TG: someone call the fcc so they can pixelate it

GG: shh. you'll hurt its feelings.

TG: oh  
TG: sorry bout that  
TG: yeah sure i'll take the kid

GG: okay and you promise you'll pay child support if something happens? ;)

TG: totes

GG: awesome! then i'll send it to you tomorrow. it should be there in a few days.  
GG: i named him orion, but you can always change it. feel free to update me if you do!

TG: nah  
TG: orion is a fuckin awesome name  
TG: forever  
TG: until i kill it i guess

GG: you won't kill it! they're really easy to take care of.  
GG: anyhow i've gotta go! talk to you soon. :D

TG: catch you round harley

GG: you bet. ;)

\-- gardenGnostic [GG] ceased pestering turntechGodhead[TG] at 20:30 --

* * *

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 21:02 --

TT: Dave, you have not been responding to me calling you, nor have you answered my texts. I have thus resorted to the last known mode of communication available to me, as we don't have a dog that I can passive-aggressively paint my message on. Your reeking socks and dirty laundry have been sitting in the middle of the laundry room since you arrived here, which means it's now been more than a couple of weeks. I am no longer politely requesting that you move them. I am demanding that you move them. Either wash them or take them back to your room. I refuse to have mold growing in a semi-public space.

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 21:04 --

* * *

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 22:33 --

TT: Okay. I see how it is. If you do not have the items previously mentioned in my last pester moved by tomorrow morning, I *will* dispose of them in the neighborhood dumpster. Please claim them before I am forced to resort to this unpleasant act of sabotage.

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 23:35 --

* * *

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 23:55 --

TT: Thank you for moving your things. For now, they are safe.

TG: fuck you

TT: I love you, my dearest half-brother. Sweetest of dreams. ♥

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 23:56 --


	15. SEAGULLS! (Stop it Now)*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, the title of this chapter is from a [**bad lip reading video**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U9t-slLl30E). as usual, comments and feedback are welcome. there's an image in this chapter btw. and i'm not sure what happened here. this is a case of "the characters said fuck you and did whatever."

**DAVE STRIDER** arrives at the party in his usual style: fashionably late. It is 8:00, a time at which he figures that most of the attendees would have already arrived. Or, at least, anyone who _mattered_ would be here by now. As he had discussed with Rose, he comes dressed as a greaser. His hair is sleeked back and he has donned the fake leather jacket from within the costume kit. (On second though, he had all the supplies he needed at home. He probably could have saved money by simply buying hair gel. Rose was pissed that day, though, so he bought the costume to appease her. After all, a pissed off Rose is not a Rose you want to be around.)

Before he enters, he surveys the building. The host of the party lives in one of the nicer parts of Skaia. It isn't exactly West Egg, but it's slightly above the par of the house he lives in with Rose. The building, itself, is nothing special. It's a five-story apartment complex, though the facade betrays a small level of luxury. When, after taking all this in, Dave eventually arrives at the door, it seems that the inside confirms this. The living room, alone, is huge. It amounts to at least double the space of the same room in Rose's house, and it's not even part of a detached unit. Dave doesn't even dare to imagine what the _bedrooms_ are like.

Actually, it can be more accurately said that, once the doors have opened, Dave doesn't have time to imagine what the bedrooms are like. He's immediately met by music, though it isn't obscenely loud. A woman—fairly tall, with wide hips; long, black hair; over a dozen visible piercings; and a prosthetic arm—greets him. She's dressed like a pirate, so Dave has no way of knowing whether or not the eye patch she's wearing is part of the costume or something she usually has. Her tan skin almost matches the color of her vest, and it takes Dave a minute to realize she's _not_ partially naked. “Well, damn. Did Terezi and I get drunk again and invite a random stranger over?”

“Nah, not this time,” Dave smirks. He buries his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Karkat invited me. I'm—”

Another woman pushes her way into view. She has darker skin (though not quite as dark as Karkat's), tightly curled hair, and a smile capable of killing. Metallic red lipstick complements _her_ pirate costume, and the plastic sword handle (presumably from the costume kit) has been reattached to a white cane. “You're the coolkid!” the woman exclaims. “Dave Strider, right?”

Dave suppresses the rising heat, preventing it from appearing on his cheeks. “Uh... Yeah. That's me. What, does Karkat talk about me a lot?”

“I mean, yeah. That's no big fucking secret around here.” The other woman—who initially greeted Dave—laughs. “I'm Vriska, by the way.” She gestures to the other woman. “This is my girlfriend, Terezi. And this is our fucking house, and _our_ house party.”

Terezi smirks. She leans over, grabs a beer from the nearby table, and shoves it into Dave's chest. “Yeah, so drink up and let lose, coolkid. You're about to get a load of what a troll party is like.”

“Troll...? Party?” Dave frowns. He looks down, to his drink, and briefly wonders if he should leave. This idea is entertained for less than a second, as he settles on opening up his bottle and taking a sip. (Honestly, he's never been a big fan of beer, but he can tolerate it; he's more of an ale person.)

Both women, meanwhile, grin devilishly at one another.

Vriska speaks up. “That's just what we call our friends. Our buddies.”

“Our pals,” Terezi finishes. She raises her own drink in the air, then chugs. After this, she turns back to the party and lets forth a loud whoop.

As both women depart, Dave takes a second to observe his surroundings. There are at least ten other people in the space, but it's not crowded. He recognizes no one else, except, of course, for Karkat. (As far as his costume goes, it's relatively tame. Judging from his suit, he's attempting to dress as Phoenix Wright, though it's clearly a rushed effort.) He's speaking to another man, who just so happens to be tall, lanky, and pale. His canines are oddly long, and his short black hair is sleeked back. He seem to be dressed like (one of the) protagonist(s) from the _Assassin's Creed_ series. The two appear to be enjoying themselves, as they're sharing a good laugh.

For some time, Dave merely observes them and continues his drinking.

He finishes one drink, then another. Another. After this drink, his third, he begins to wander towards Karkat, who is still conversing with the strange man. And, as Dave draws closer to them, he hears snippets of their conversation.

“Fuck you,” Karkat characteristically says.

The other man, still laughing, counters this, saying, “I'm just saying, what if nipples _do_ grow back? Could we make a nipple farm?” His voice is marked by a pronounced lisp.

“Sollux, you're drunk as fuck. You need to go, find Aradia, and ask her to take you home.” As he says this, Karkat groans. He shakes his head and massages his temples with his free hand. His other hand is busy holding a bottle of sparkling water.

“D-do... Do you think that...” A loud burp interrupts Sollux's thoughts, but he doggedly continues afterwards, much to Karkat's chagrin. “Do you think that Snake... you know, from Metal Gear. What if he _does_ have nipples in _Smash_ , but they're just hidden by flesh-colored pasties?”

 _“Go home, Sollux,”_ Karkat replies. A sound, halfway between a laugh and moan, escapes him.

The other man rolls his eyes and throws his arm over Karkat's shoulder. Despite the fact that Karkat appears to be having as much fun as an aquaphobe at a pool party, Sollux snaps a selfie, in which he seems to be throwing up a peace sign. “Oh, that one's good for LinkedIn.”

“For the love of all that is holy on this godforsaken earth, do _not_ put that drunken party picture on your professional profile, you absolute buffoon.” At this point, Karkat laughs. It's a hoarse sound, more akin to a series of snickers, but it's not unpleasant to listen to. “Don't make me take your phone, dumbass.”

“Fine! Fine!” Again Sollux rolls his eyes. As the distance between him and Dave continues to decrease, it's obvious that each eye is a different color. The left is brown, while the right eye is blue. “I'll just put it on Twitter.” He begins to type furiously on his phone.

“Still a bad idea, but less idiotic,” Karkat concedes, shrugging. At this point, he looks up...

**KARKAT VANTAS** shoots what might just be the most potent glare he's ever glared at the ridiculous-looking blond, who now stands only a few feet away from him. He turns away from Sollux, rolls his eyes, and takes another sip of his water. “So, the biggest tool of them all finally made it to the ball?”

“Hey, now. Stop that. Rhyming is _my_ schtick. You ain't entitled to taking my trademark,” Dave responds, stone-faced. “So, what the hell am I here for?”

Karkat shrugs. He watches as Dave continues to nurse his drink, swaying uncertainly on his feet as he does so.

Actually, it's not so much 'nursing' a drink as it is 'stupidly consuming absurd amounts at once, much like an alcohol-virgin attendee of a frat party might'.

“You might want to slow down on that beer, jackass.” To be honest, there's a tiny part of Karkat that cares about Dave. At the very least, he cares for his personal safety, and he doesn't want to be stuck finding a way to tow Dave's alcohol-poisoned ass back to his place. “Your costume is stupid, by the way.”

Dave smirks. He chugs. After wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket, he responds, “Yeah, says the worst Phoenix Wright I've ever seen. You're just a walking target board, with 'big nerd' written on your back.”

“Pleasant introduction.” Karkat turns away from Dave, towards Sollux, and nods approvingly.

It seems that his friend has taken his advice. Aradia is escorting him to the door, and he can only assume that the pair are leaving the party.

“Why aren't you drinking and socializing, like everyone else?” As if it will somehow enhance the meaning of his words, Dave gestures to the hubbub surrounding them. He tilt his head to the side. “You can't be the designated driver, right?”

“I don't like the taste of alcohol, so I'm not going to drink it. And I've _been_ socializing. You're just late to the fucking party.” Here, Karkat pauses. He rolls his shoulders and winces as his left emits a loud a pop. “And what you're doing here is making other friends, so you stop fucking bothering me.”

Another smirk. Tilting his beer bottle into the air, Dave finishes the last of his drink. “What, you don't like my heartfelt attempts at getting to know my fuckin' _soulmmate_?” He spits the last word out like a foul-tasting morsel. His brows furrow, his shoulders tense, and his lips flicker between forming his usual look of apathy and a venomous snarl. He steps forward and flexes the fingers of his free hand.

Karkat reacts by taking a step back.

Obviously, Dave isn't entirely here. He's not sure where the rest of him went, but he can clearly see that what's left over is quite possibly the darkest side of the photographer. He exudes a peculiar mood—a cross between resentment, anger, and disdain. And, when he speaks up again, that feeling shines through. “What, you ain't interested?” Dave shakes his head.

“Right now? No, I'm not, Strider,” Karkat responds cordially. He keeps his tone level and his posture non-confrontational. “You're drunk as hell right now. I'm going to tell you what I told Sollux: go home.”

Dave checks his watch. He frowns. “It's only 9:00!“ he proclaims. A humorless laugh punctuates the statement. “Party's just getting started. Now, out of my way, I might as well see what else there is to eat and drink in this place.”

Karkat catches Dave by the shoulders. He pushes him back, groaning, “Oh, like _hell_ you're getting another drink. Are you fucking _craving_ some good, old-fashioned alcohol poisoning, you absolute shit-for-brains!?”

“Hey, _you_ invited me to this party,” Dave quips, straining against Karkat's grip. It's obvious from the confusion on his face that he's surprised by his soulmate's strength. “Let me fuckin' go, you bastard.”

“Look, no one at this party is going home in an ambulance on my watch,” Karkat growls. With a bit of effort, he overpowers Dave and pins him to the floor. He digs his knee into Dave's ribs and bears down some of his weight, causing the blond to wiggle uncomfortably and gracelessly. All the while, he continues, “If I've got to hold you down like this for the rest of the party, I will. I invited you so you could meet some people in Skaia, not so you could get yourself so goddamned shit-faced that you drop dead, you oversized tool.”

Dave reacts by pulling his arm free and throwing a punch.

It hits Karkat's temple. A dull ringing fills his right ear. This, however, isn't a problem. He's more concerned with this recent turn of events. His attentions fall back to Dave.

He hasn't gotten far. He's not on his feet yet, and his intoxication seems to be hindering his attempts.

This makes it easy for Karkat to once again overpower him. He shoves him to the ground and once again pins himself on top of the blond.

Shortly afterwards, someone grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him back. Once his restrainer begins speaking, he's aware of their identity: Terezi. "Aw, come on, Karkles. That wasn't nice. Now we're obligated to kick you out.”

“I didn't do anything wrong!” Karkat exclaims.

Terezi tuts. “You know that fighting is against the rules of this here hive. Your ass is out! The jury agrees!”

By now, Karkat has been dragged to the front door.

Though Terezi offers an apologetic sigh, she still shoves him into the hallway.

Shortly after this, Karkat hears Vriska. “You! You might be pretty, boy, but I'm not letting you break my girlfriend's house rules. Out!” This is immediately followed by the thud of a familiar and very drunken blond hitting the floor.

The door clicks shut, and Karkat finds himself alone, stuck, twenty minutes from home, in a hallway, with Dave goddamned Strider. “You absolute dumbass!”

Dave groans. He covers his ears. “Well, fuck, I sure did that...” He staggers to his feet, leaning against the wall to hasten his efforts, before staring at Karkat. “Not that you helped, huh? You were like a garden gnome at a dart-throwing competition.”

“That doesn't make any fucking sense,” Karkat quips. As he speaks, he opens up his phone. He opens Uber. “Whatever. You're an asshole, and I hate you. Without a doubt, I hate you. That doesn't mean I'll let you drive home, though. You owe me for an Uber.”

Dave responds with a smirk. To Karkat's bewilderment, it seems his former aggression is gone. Now, he's little more than a standard party drunk. “My dude, I won't remember that tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah? Well, I'll be sure to fucking remind you.” Karkat shakes his head. The app has alerted him that his ride will arrive soon, and he pockets his phone. He grabs Dave's wrist and drags him down the hall, muttering curses under his breath as he goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes! i drew the karkat in this chapter! if you like him, please feel free to reblog him from **[my art blog](https://tt40art.tumblr.com/post/176462013204/not-really-much-just-a-little-doodle-of-sorts)**! he uh.... honestly... .wasn't supposed to be this hot.......... hhhhhhhh also, the song for this chapter was chosen because i hope it conveys the same chaotic energy as this entire clusterfuck of a chapter


	16. The Silver-Tongued Devil and I*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a song by kris kristofferson, and you can [**listen to it here**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=350Pj8Q5d1Y)! You can find the link to the art [**here, on my art blog!**](https://tt40art.tumblr.com/post/176489700844/heres-a-little-dave-strider-sketch-with-and)

**KARKAT VANTAS** sits in the back seat of an Uber, the driver of which happens to still be wearing his Domino's uniform. The car smells like mold and sweat, and the radio drones on, playing strange electronic music. (Not that Karkat really cares about what music is playing; he can barely process it.) With every bump in the road, the vehicle sways and bucks. Over and over again, Karkat finds himself slamming the top of his head into the dented felt ceiling. And, as he begins to consider that the road has been quite kind to him for the past few minutes, another bump throws him upwards. He growls. “This is fucking stupid,” he snarls.

Dave, meanwhile, groans. Seeing as the Uber took a solid hour to arrive, he's gained enough presence of mind to at least understand what's happened. His face is buried in his hands, and he hasn't spoken for the past ten minutes.

Honestly, Karkat would love to leave him alone. He'd love to completely detach himself from the situation. It's not as if he's that interested in the blond douchebag, even if he _is_ his soulmate, but...

A hiccup, then, Dave speaks up. “Oh, shit, that was horrible. Everyone probably thinks I'm an absolute bastard, huh?”

“Probably.” With a huff, Karkat folds his arms across his chest. He turns his head and stares out the window, watching pensively as the city lights crawl past. Judging from the traffic, he'll be stuck in this disgusting car with this unpleasant piece of shit for quite some time...

Ten minutes later, Dave speaks up again. “I'm a fuckin' idiot.”

A harsh, hoarse laugh precedes Karkat's response. “Wow! That's one thing that both of us can agree on.”

“I always do this,” Dave, too, laughs. His laughter, however, is different; it's hollow, devoid of any joy. “I just fuck everything up. Guess that's why Bro never liked me. A solid reason to kick my ass, I guess.”

“Damn, you're depressing.” Karkat frowns. Against all odds, he feels a tug at his heart. There's a pang of sympathy, and it's his natural instinct to act upon it. No matter how much he'd rather not, he finds himself responding, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“My dad. I called him Bro. I guess he wasn't _really_ my dad. Or... Fuck. I'm too drunk to figure that out now,” Dave shakes his head, as if to clear his mind. After another hiccup, he continues, “My mom is my link to Rose. She fucked Bro, had me, and ditched. Guess she figured how fuckin' crazy Bro was before anyone else. I got left with Bro, obviously.”

Karkat nods. He doesn't entirely understand everything Dave is saying. The intermittent darkness makes it hard for him to read lips, and the drunken slurring of his conversational partner isn't doing him any favors. Nonetheless, he continues to listen. After all, that's the least he can do.

“I guess Bro was right. I sure was destined to be a fuckin' failure. I mean, look at me. I don't even do that great as a photographer.”

“Didn't you say that you got published regularly?”

“By shitty magazines, yeah. Anything other than that is because I'm working with Kansas.”

Karkat pauses. After a few seconds of confusion, he realizes Dave's mistake. “You mean Kanaya?”

“That's what I _said_ ,” Dave huffs. “Whatever. What I'm saying is I'm a big fuckin' loser. You could put me under a tent and charge kids their lunch money to come see the world's biggest failure. A verified waste of space, on display for all to see! Oggle at his goddamned inability to hold down a job or make any worthwhile personal connections with anyone but some people on the internet. And, hey, who knows if those people're even real, huh? I ain't got a clue. Maybe they're real smart bots.”

By now, Karkat's head is spinning. On top of difficult conditions, he now contends with Dave's near-constant rambling. On one hand, it's oddly nice. There's something soothing about his voice, and the strange cadence he has. It's almost Mr. Rogers levels of relaxing; it's relatively flat but soft. His words, however, (or, at least, what Karkat can understand) are disturbing.

“God, I might as well go dig a hole and sit in it. Come, children, and hear the woeful story of Dave Born-to-Fail Strider.”

At this point, Karkat can't help but interrupt. “God. Jesus fucking Christ. Strider, stop! You're not a failure. From what you're saying, it sounds like you've just got problems you haven't worked through.”

“That's why I'm payin' for therapy,” Dave deadpans. Considering his personality, it's hard to tell if he's joking or being serious. Something about the look of intoxicated confusion, however, hints at some sort of sincerity.

“Wait, fuck. Are you taking me home?” Suddenly, Dave sits upright. The seatbelt safety lock engages, and a loud click sounds as he's prevented from moving forward. “Shit! SHIT! I can't go home. Not right now. Rose will kill me.”

Karkat sighs. He rolls his eyes. “She won't kill you.”

“She'll do all that psychobabble bullshit,” Dave explains. “I'm too drunk for that. She'll just keep going and going until I tell her what she wants, and I'm too fucking drunk for that! Don't take me back there, dude.” At this point, Dave tangles his fingers in his hair.

“She'll find out at some point, you know. Rose is dating Kanaya, and I _live_ with Kanaya.” Karkat frowns. Half of him feels smug about this. Dave will inevitably get what's coming to him. The other half, however, feels terrible for Dave. Sure, he's drunk as hell, but he's obviously afraid of _something_. Perhaps it's not logical; from what Karkat knows of Rose, it is most definitely not logical. But, what concerns Karkat is that something has made him feel this way.

A long, reluctant sigh eventually escapes Karkat. Against his better judgement, he acquiesces. “Fine. I'll let you stay with me for the night. I guess it's better you have someone monitoring your stupid ass, too, so...”

“Oh, God. You've saved me, Vantas. I owe you. I owe you my soul. When I die, I'll accompany your soul into the afterlife as your indentured servant. I'll—”

Here, Karkat interrupts. He raises his hand up and groans. “Okay, okay. Just... shut up.”

“Yessir,” Dave responds. Then, surprisingly, he falls silent.

* * *

**DAVE STRIDER** wakes suddenly. He wakes to the smell of freshly brewed coffee, which is strange. After all, Rose doesn't like coffee; she prefers tea. Another odd thing is that he isn't underneath his sheets. There's not a familiar roughness, akin to old felt, pressing down on him. Instead, he's beneath an outrageously soft and smooth woven blanket. It's a jarring sensation; he's never before been enveloped in such luxury. What's most concerning to him, however, is the purring creature on top of him. As he becomes more aware of his surroundings, he comes to realize it's a cat. The thick, fluffy fur is primarily black, though there are a few white spots: around its muzzle, over its left eye, and a sock-like white mark on its front left paw.

“Shit,” Dave grumbles, shooing away the cat. “Fuck...” He rolls over, expecting to hit the wall, only to end up tumbling onto a finely polished wooden floor.

“Oh.” When he turns over, Dave finds himself staring at Karkat Vantas. His face is covered in early morning stubble, and a steaming cup of coffee is held in his right hand. “You're finally awake. It's noon.”

“WHAT!?” Dave sputters.

“Yeah, you've been fucking out of it. I was vaguely tempted to call the police and report a dead body, but I didn't feel like dealing with all the associated bullshit. So, I didn't. If you were dead, I figured I'd just get Kanaya to help me dump the body.” Karkat shrugs. He takes a sip of his coffee and smiles. It's an oddly attractive expression, and it seems as if his face was _meant_ for smiling.

Wait... No... Dave shakes his head, trying desperately to dislodge such thoughts. Instead, he finds himself studying Karkat's dimples, until he forces himself to look away. “Where am I?”

“You don't remember?” Karkat cocks his head to the side. His brows furrow. “You begged me to take you to my place, so I did. Might as well. It saved me a fucking assload of money on that Uber, too. You're in my room, and you stole my fucking cat. Hopper likes you more than he likes me, and it's bullshit.”

As if on cue, the cat jumps onto what Dave realizes is a futon. It rubs against his thigh, pressing against his jeans until he reciprocates the affection.

Karkat, meanwhile, tuts. “Yeah, you. I'm talking to you, you little bastard. _I_ feed you. _I_ keep a roof over your head. You're supposed to love _me_!”

The cat hisses.

Dave responds by gently shooing it away again. He groans, rubs his head, and stumbles to his feet. Everything is too bright, too loud, and excruciating. Nonetheless, he has enough fortitude to realize he has to get home. Rose will realize he's missing, and he can't afford to have _her_ as pissed off at him as Bro always was. So, he opens his mouth, preparing to ask Karkat about arrangements.

Karkat, however, beats him to the punch. He snatches up the fleeing cat, strokes her head, and smirks. “You owe me, Strider. I've already made a cover story for you. Luckily, Rose and Kanaya were off at an interview. She won't be home for a few hours, and I told her I'd drop some materials I have for her. I never said that the materials didn't include her outrageous shitstain of a brother, so you're safe.”

“Oh.” Dave is dumbfounded. He's never before been the subject of such considerate actions. Even if it _does_ mean owing Karkat something in the near future, it's far more kindness than he's ever really seen in his life. Especially when it comes to himself. He finds himself scraping the back of his mind for something to say, but he only manages to squeeze out a pathetic, “Thanks.”

In return, Karkat offers a shrug. He turns, lets the cat down, and waves dismissively. “No problem. Get yourself dressed, and I'd love if you could make the futon, but I understand you might be too fucking hungover to even put the right foot in the corresponding shoe, so I won't hold it against you too much if you neglect to do this absolute bottom tier of commonplace guest courtesy.” With this said, he disappears behind a door, presumably leading to the bathroom.

Dave never figures out what's behind the door. He's never liked using bathrooms in other people's houses. It took him a week just to realize Rose's bathroom was safe; asking to use Karkat's is completely off limits.


	17. Eleanor Rigby*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wanna know why that voltron tag is in there? this is why, because IT'S SPACE DAD!!!! oh, by the way, this is a beatles song. it's not too hard to find, but, just in case, [**here's a link**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HuS5NuXRb5Y)! i'll try and add a shiro sketch soon. [**Here's the image in the chapter!**](https://tt40art.tumblr.com/post/176595818084/just-a-quick-one-hour-sketch-not-really-the-best)
> 
> * * *
> 
> **CONTENT WARNINGS: pesterlogs, image**

**ROSE LALONDE** sits at her desk, with her feet atop it, and studies her most recently acquired book. It's some sort of strange cross between a fairy tale and erotica. It's just her type of literature, and she's absolutely flattered that she got it from Kanaya.

Of course, she can never just have a day off. She she's about to flip the page, she hears a knock on the door. Not long after this, the door slams open. When she looks up, she sees her half-brother, who strides in like the insatiable dumbass he is.

“Yo, 'sup, Lalonde?” he announces. He swaggers up to the nearest chair, directly across from Rose, and straddles it.

The act, however, doesn't fool Rose. She raises her left brow and stares at Dave. “Hello, David. Any particular reason for you bothering me on my designated day off? My newest book is finally finished its editing, and I'm trying to take some much-needed... What do you call it? 'Me time'? I'm doing that.” With this said, Rose resumes reading. Or, rather, she tries to.

Dave, as she expected him to, interrupts. “Hey, now, where's the psychobabble I know and love?”

“Now, David, we both know you neither love nor truly understand my psychological analysis sessions. What do you want?”

A smirk spreads across Dave's face, causing a sinking feeling to bubble up with Rose; she's fallen for his trap. His words only confirm this. “Yeah. That shit. Show me that good shit.”

By now, Rose realizes she won't be reading any time soon. She reluctantly shuts her book. “Fine. What do you want?”

Here, Dave's faux confidence dissipates. He offers a nervous smile. “So... I've got a few questions...”

“About soulmates?” Rose interjects.

Dave growls. “How did you know that? What the fuck?”

“Just a hunch.” Rose allows herself a chuckle. She smirks.

“Okay, so... What do feel like around Kanaya? Like, what makes you know she's your soulmate?”

Here, Rose sighs. He rubs her chin pensively, considering her words for a few minutes before responding. “I guess it just feels right. It's a sort of warm sensation, which I suppose rises in your chest and radiates outward, to your extremities. I can't entirely articulate it, but it's a sense of belonging.”

Dave fiddles with an edge of his shirt. He refuses to look up as he counters, “Mhm. Sure.”

“Did that clear up your confusion?” Rose asks.

A nod. With a dismissive wave, Dave stands up. “Yeah, thanks. I... I'm goin' for a walk. I need to get this shit out of my head. There's, like, fifteen thousand humping bees buzzing in my head, and I can't fuckin' stand it. Time to... uh... What do they do with bees? They smoke 'em out, right? Time to give those mind bees some fuckin' vapes, okay? Okay. Peace out. Later. See you 'round. All that.”

Rose rolls her eyes. “I didn't understand any of that, but do have fun with your bees.”

“Oh, I fuckin' will.”

The door clicks shut and, for the second time today, Rose settles down to read her book.

* * *

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering grimAuxiliatrix [GT] at 09:30 --

TT: Hello, dear. ♥

GT: Hello To You As Well  
GT: It's A Bit Early For You To Be Up Is It Not

TT: I suppose so, but I am awake, regardless. It seems our two lovebirds might be onto a breakthrough.  
TT: Dave just asked me about feelings. A rather strange occurrence, to say the least.  
TT: What's your opinion on the matter?

GT: It Sounds To Me As If You Are Right  
GT: I Cannot Wait To See How This Situation Develops.

* * *

**DAVE STRIDER** sits on a splinter-ridden park bench. He stares upward, to the sky, and watches as the clouds roll by. He tries to parse the shapes. A dragon, perhaps? _No..._ He squints. On second thought, the cloud looks more like a camel. And, immediately behind it, he sees a cloud shaped like... Well, with quite a bit of work, he imagines it as a sword-wielding knight.

“Hey, is anyone sitting here?”

Dave looks up, and finds himself staring at a tall, broad-shouldered man. His tan skin clashes with his black hair, which is marked by a snow white forelock. A scar runs horizontally across his face, crossing over the upper portion of the bridge of his nose. By appearance alone, he seems to be either slightly older than Dave or a touch younger.

After deeming this newcomer to pose little to no treat to him, he nods. “Yeah, sure. Whatever floats your fuckin' boat.”

“Great.” The man reaches into his briefcase, pulls out a bagged peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and begins eating. He smooths out the wrinkles of his well-ironed suit. He begins taking large, invigorated bites, as if he hasn't eaten in hours. “Name's Shiro,”

“Dave,” is the short response. He folds his arms across his chest and sighs.

“Nice. Nice.” Another bite of the sandwich. “I work at the Voltron Tech laboratory down the street.” At this point, Shiro points to a building. Dave has never noticed it until now, but it sticks out like a sore thumb. The facade is pure white, marked by turquoise embellishments around the doors and windows. Beneath said windows are small planter boxes, in which vibrant pink and electric green flowers are set. Large rocks line the alleyways to each side. “Anyhow, you look like you're having a tough time.”

“Why would you care? What are you, my dad? Too fucking bad for you if you are, because he's fuckin' dead. Old piece of shit got T-boned by an eighteen wheeler. Dead the minute it hit him.” Dave shrugs. He pulls a cigarette from his pocket and rolls it between his fingers, though he neither lights it nor places it anywhere near his lips.

Shiro, meanwhile, laughs. It's a deep, hearty noise. “I'm not your dad, kid, but maybe I _could_ be. You're, what? Eighteen.”

“Twenty-three,” Dave snaps, seething. Though he knows it's strange to be angry about this, he's never been fond of people underestimating his age. Perhaps, in the back of his mind, he fears that they perceive him as less than he is.

Shiro, meanwhile, offers another laugh. He shakes his head. “Yeah, I guess I _couldn't_ be your dad, then, huh? I'm thirty-three. Anyhow, you don't have to talk to me if you don't want to. I'm just here to see if you wanted some help. My pals at the lab all call me their dad, too, so...”

Driven by some insatiable sensation, Dave speaks up. A nagging feeling, a feeling of anger and frustration he's felt as though he's always known, erupts outward, flowing from his mouth like last night's rancid dinner. “Do you ever feel like... Ugh. Like, you know...” He's keenly aware of his voice; when he's nervous, his accent gets stronger. “Do you ever, just, feel like you like someone, but you ain't supposed to like 'em?”

“I'm... not sure I understand.”

Dave groans. He massages his temples. “I mean... Let's say there's this guy, and...”

“And whenever you're around him, you get this funny feeling, right?” Shiro smiles. Or, maybe, it's a smirk; Dave can't tell either way. But, he can hear the sincerity in his voice as he continues, saying, “It's kind of nice, isn't it? Like you want to be near him and, when you are, you're all warm and fuzzy inside, right?”

Dave hesitates. He opens his mouth, intending to protest, only to offer a blatant confirmation of this man's words. “Yeah. Yeah, that hits the nail right on the fuckin' head. We might as well be making a fuckin' house, that's how many nails we've got goin' right now.” Looking to the ground, he stares at his shoes. He's worn this particular pair of red Converse brand shoes for years, and they're showing their age. Silver duct tape holds them together at the edges, where the soles have begun to separate from the canvas body. The original laces have been frayed to little more than shreds, which remain stuck in their place. In their stead, he has one set of black and one set of grey laces.

When he finally chances a swift side-eyed look at Shiro, he finds the man smiling. In fact, the man is quietly laughing. His shoulders shake up and down, and, when he speaks, his voice betrays his bemusement. “That's called love, you know. It's what you get when you're around your soulmate.”

“But... I can't like another guy, dude. That's not what should happen. It ain't like that, right?” Desperation grabs hold of his mind. Dave squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. He crumples the cigarette between his fingers and watches the tobacco flake out, falling to the ground. “Right!?”

The man's smile fades slightly, but it remains in place. “No, that's perfectly normal.” At this point, he flashes his right ring finger, on which there's a plain silver band. A black onyx is set within its interlocking etchings. “I'm married to a man, actually. His name's Adam, and he's the biggest nerd I've ever met in my life, but he's great. It's nothing weird or bad, you know.”

“Hm...” Dave nods, slowly, and shoves the paper remnants of his cigarette in his pocket.

Shiro, meanwhile, checks his wristwatch. He sighs, reaches into his breast pocket, and hands over a glossy business card. “Here. If you ever need to get in touch, don't hesitate to ask. My friends and I are usually hanging out in the lab, or at one of their apartments. Usually mine. Give me a call if you ever want some advice. Or, even better...” Producing a pen from his pocket, Shiro flips the card over. He scribbles something onto the back, and Dave recognizes it as a chumhandle. (paladinDad) “Here. Feel free to ask me questions. Anyhow, my break is over. Catch you around, if you so desire.” With this and a wave, he departs.

Dave is left clutching the business card.

 **Takashi Shirogane**  
Voltron Tech Labs - Skaia Branch Manager and Coordinator  
tshirogane@voltron.skaia.net

\-- grimAuxiliatrix [GA] began pestering paladinDad [PD] at 12:13 --

GA: You've Done Exceedingly Well I Expect  
GA: I Will Let Rose Know And We Shall Provide Ample Payment As Promised

PD: LOL  
PD: Sweet I'll come collect on it later this week when I have less work to do

GA: Yes That Is Understandable I Shall Leave You To Do What You Do Then

\-- grimAuxiliatrix [GA] ceased pestering paladinDad [PD] at 12:30 --

* * *

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering paladinDad [PD] at 23:59 --

TG: okay i know this is real late  
TG: i just wanna make sure we're on the same page here  
TG: nothing's worse than having the wrong pesterchum and pestering the wrong person  
TG: then you've got  
TG: like  
TG: fifteen pissed off women and an old man from arkansas chasing your ass for catfishing them or whatever

PD: Okay so I love helping people but it's honestly almost midnight and I have to be at the lab by 5 so you're just going to have to wait kiddo

TG: m'kay that's fuckin fair  
TG: fairer than the most outrageous annual state shindig  
TG: pack up them bottles and rack 'em up in the most impossible to knock over pyramid ever  
TG: welcome to the fun fair

PD: It is way too late for this bullshit kid I'm sorry

\-- paladinDad [PD] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 00:09 --


	18. (I Fell Into) The Pit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ~~music by mouserat / scarecrow boat~~ this is from fucking parks and rec and [**here's a link**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-vMpfbuI9FY)  
>  **CONTENT WARNING: Pesterlogs** , and here come more of the Voltron kids

**KARKAT VANTAS** stands in the middle of the town center. One hand holds a cup of still-steaming coffee, while the other is busy trying to keep his scarf taut around his face. He walks against the stinging cold breeze. Despite it only being the early days of November, small flakes of snow are falling. They whip about in the wind, which throws them back and against Karkat's skin. A loose knit cap, given to him by Kanaya a few days ago, covers his head and protects his implant's processor from the icy winds.

“What do you mean my ride cancelled!?” he shouts into his phone. “I called for this ride five hours ago! They said the weather would have—” He pauses, groans, and hangs up. Then, against his better judgement, he opens up his phone. After several minutes of reconciling what he's about to do with his pride, he sends a text.

KARKAT: Hey, so, my ride dropped me. I'm stuck in the middle of town, who knows how far from home, and it's cold as fuck out here. I absolutely loathe asking you for help with every fiber of my shriveled, dead soul, but it's all I have left at this point. Would you possibly be able to take time out of your busy-as-fuck schedule doing fuck-all to drive me home?

As Karkat prepares to pocket his phone and wait for a response, it vibrates.

DAVE: yeah sure whatever where the fuck are you

KARKAT: I'm at the store on the corner of Parkside Drive and Brook Road.

DAVE: that makes no fucking sense

KARKAT: I'm at the Quik Stop.

DAVE: oh okay sure i'll be there soon

Karkat sighs. He pockets his phone, closes his eyes, and groans.

Honestly, he hates asking Dave for help. In fact, he hates asking for help from anyone. _He's_ usually the one doing the helping, not the other way around. And that's how he likes it. And that's how he wants it to stay. That's how it always has been, and that's how it's always going to stay. He is perfectly fine alone, and he always will be. After all, what will ever meet his expectations? Who will ever accept him?

His phone rings. He looks down, expecting to find a text from Dave. Instead, it's a call from Kanaya. He answers it, and the sound from the phone goes directly to his processor. It takes some effort to understand the words, but they're so impeccably pronounced that it can _only_ be the woman whose name is on the caller ID.

“Karkat, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but...” In the background, Karkat swears he can hear giggling. “I...”

“It's... Fine. It's fine, Kanaya. Dave is going to pick me up. You just have fun with Rose, okay?” Karkat sighs. Until now, Kanaya has always been his backup. Now, though, it seems as though she's always with Rose. And that's not exactly a _bad_ thing, but it's... Lonely? Yes, lonely seems to be the right word. “I'll see you whenever you get home, alright?”

“Absolutely! And we're still slotted to watch a film together, as we always do?”

There's a hopefulness in her voice, and Karkat can't help but soften his tone. Again, he sighs. “Of course. I'll see you later.”

“Indeed.” Another possibly giggle. “I hate to do this, but I really must hang up now.”

Karkat opens his mouth to speak, but the line goes dead before he can respond. So, instead, he bites his lip.

* * *

**DAVE STRIDER** is... Well, to be quite frank about it, he's one of _those guys_. He purchased his first, only, and current car with his own money, which he accumulated by working various odd jobs in his free time and scrounging the absurd amounts of money Bro's friends left in the couch cushions. It's not much, nor is it a rare or particularly valuable car by any definition. It's a run-down old Mazda, of the Mazda 3 line, from some unknown year. Perhaps it's the early 2000's? Dave doesn't know; the owner's manual came in tatters, almost as if someone's dumbass child ate most of it.

Regardless of these flaws, he loves his car. He keeps it polished, and it has never once been in an accident. He calls it Bart (or Barry, depending on his mood). Today, at least, it's Bart, and he parks it directly in front of the Quik Mart on the corner of Brook and Parkside. Through the faint cloud of wind-swept snow, he can see Karkat. He watches as the man stumbles outside, opens the door, and collapses into the passenger's seat.

“What the fuck took you so long, dumbass?” Karkat growls, flexing his fingers. He rubs his hands together, forms a cup with them, and blows into them, apparently trying to warm them up. He's shivering, and his cap is dripping wet. He removes it and begins to wring it out, only for the window to slide down as he begins.

“Hey, now! Whoa! _Fuckin' whoa!_ Don't you fuckin' dare do that inside my car. You ain't about to foul up me sweet, sweet coach with your soggy-ass woolen head cover. I bust my ass harder than a dutiful single mother to keep this sick ride purring like the world's fattest, happiest cat, and you're not going to ruin it in less than a second.”

Karkat stares at Dave with a bewildered glare. After a long sigh, he obliges. He wrings the cap out the window before rolling it back up and placing it in his bag. After this, he runs his fingers through his hair. As per usual, he seems to instinctively avoid the area around his implant, despite the fact that this is where he most needs to brush down stray strands.

Figuring Karkat doesn't want to talk, Dave shrugs. He turns on the CD player. It crackles to life and begins to play some home recordings of various indier-than-indie bands.

And, at this point, Karkat reacts. He groans, covers his ears, and lets forth a low, guttural growl. “Turn it off,” he mutters.

At this point, Dave finds himself frozen in shock.

This prompts Karkat to urge him further. He reaches out and fumbles with the controls. “Dammit, dumbass! You fucking oblivious oaf! Turn it off! _Turn it off,_ ” he hisses.

“Jesus fuckin' Christ on a hot, steaming bun. Fine! Move your hand. I can't turn it off with your stupid hand in front of the controls.” After shoving Karkat away, he turns off the music. He looks to his right, toward his passenger, and frowns. “What, you ain't a fan of music?”

“It doesn't _sound_ like music. Not to me. How fucking far up your own over-stretched anus do you have your head shoved?” One hand massages his temples, while the other digs its nails into his palm. “It's... It's fucking noise.”

“I can keep it low, you know. There's this new invention, and it's called a volume�—”

“No,” Karkat interjects, shaking his head. “Just keep it off, okay?”

“Oh...” At this point, Dave can't help but feel crestfallen. Sure, he's still not entirely on board with this whole soulmate concept. He has, however, been considering it. And, if anything could kill the deal, it's this. Despite the fact that he dropped his music career long ago, he can't help but retain a passion for music. If he can't share that passion, then... “So...” Averting his gaze, Dave shifts the car out of park. He carefully pulls out of the parallel parking spot he's in. “You just... You... Uh... You don't like music?”

Karkat, too, avoids looking to the driver of the car. He folds his arms across his chest and scowls. “No.” The answer is succinct. It's sharp. And, after some time, his expression sours further. His shoulders tense and, as he pulls out his phone, he continues, “I used to. I played cello, but I don't any more.”

“You don't—” Dave begins.

Again, Karkat butts in. “Don't play, don't listen.”

“Oh.” Dave's grip on the wheel tightens. He worries his bottom lip. “I'm sorry. Didn't... I didn't realize that.”

Karkat shrugs. He locks his phone, returns it to his jacket pocket, and clicks his tongue a few times. Then, he speaks up. “It's fine. Great. It's fucking splendid.” His eyes slide close and, as Dave glances at him, he can't help but notice his thick lashes. “It's just how it is. There's no use ripping my soul to shreds over it. I've got other hobbies, now, and I'm perfectly happy with those.” Here, he pauses. He looks up, at the road ahead, and nods to the right. “Turn here. I can walk from here.”

“A-are you sure?” Dave frowns.

Karkat nods. He continues to stare pointedly out the window. “Yes. I am. Thanks for getting me this far.” As the car stops, he opens the door. He steps out, offers a short wave, and wanders off, into the haze of increasingly furious snowfall.

* * *

\-- installWizard [IW] opened memo on board SHIRO GOT ANOTHER KID SO I GUESS WE'RE LAST NIGHT'S LEFTOVERS NOW --

IW: read the title everyone!  
IW: dad has stabbed us all in the back!

\-- mulletLover [ML] responded to memo at 22:30 --

ML: Okay and how does this affect me personally?  
ML: Pidge it is kind of late and we all have to be in the lab early tomorrow morning. So maybe we should try to go to sleep instead of talking shit right now?

\-- loverBoy [LB] responded to memo at 22:31 --

LB: i can't fucking believe it  
LB: shiro dumped all of us  
LB: and after he told us he would stop adopting confused young adults

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] responded to memo at 22:33 --

TG: hi  
TG: um  
TG: not to be rude as fuck but  
TG: who the absolute fuck are you people and what are y'all babbling about

IW: and the culprit arrives!  
IW: right on time!

TG: huh

LB: oh my god he types like me this is awful  
LB: change how you type now  
LB: i'm the only one who types like that around here

\-- bakingBro [BB] responded to memo at 22:35 --

BB: i am... so... confused.  
BB: is this that dave guy you found in shiro's contacts, pidge?

IW: no it's my dog rover. he learned to type today.

BB: wow! cool!

IW: ...

ML: ...

LB: ...

TG: who the fuck are you people

BB: i was joking, you guys.

IW: okay fair.

ML: Okay well since none of my dumbass friends are going to help I will.  
ML: I'm Keith  
ML: installWizard is Pidge  
ML: bakingBro is Hunk  
ML: loverBoy is Lance  
ML: We all work for Shiro at Voltron Tech and we jokingly call him our dad. It's all a big big joke. Ha ha. Now can everyone just shut up so we can all go to bed?

LB: you can always  
LB: you know  
LB: leave

\-- mulletLover [ML] left the memo! --

TG: okay that didn't help at all

BB: we're all just pulling your leg. you seem like a cool guy.

LB: too cool  
LB: i don't trust him

IW: well really shiro doesn't seem to be awake so this is no fun without him.  
IW: peace out.

\-- installWizard [IW] has left the memo! --

LB: i don't know who you are red kid  
LB: but i don't trust you  
LB: i'm the cool one around here

BB: oh. not again.

\-- BB banned LB from responding to memo --

BB: well, anyhow, it looks like everyone's bounced. i might as well, too.  
BB: uh... sorry for the confusion.

TG: i still don't know what's happening

\-- bakingBro [BB] has left the memo! --

TG: none of this fuckin helped  
TG: god what the fuck

\-- Uh-Oh! Everyone else is offline! Your message will be seen when people return to the memo. --

TG: whatever  
TG: i'm too tired for this bullshit

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] has left the memo! --  
\-- Memo board SHIRO GOT ANOTHER KID SO I GUESS WE'RE LAST NIGHT'S LEFTOVERS NOW has been closed! --


	19. Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated Chapter 17 to include an image! Anyhow... The song here is from Les Misérables, and I have a personal favorite version, but [**here's the 10th anniversary edition**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=urxk4mveLCw), though (as far as English goes) i have a personal soft spot for the [**original broadway cast**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZFIj8h0E36A) version, and my all-time favorite is the [**1991 french revival recording**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T4jACCdNWKQ) of the song ( _etoiles_ ), and i'm a fuCKING NERD.
> 
>  
> 
> **CONTENT WARNINGS: pesterlogs... again**

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 09:42 --

TG: hey  
TG: so  
TG: did i piss you off in the car a few days ago  
TG: like  
TG: i understand if i did but i showed up for the shoot a few days ago and you weren't there

CG: What?

TG: yeah well you weren't there and i'm really worried that i fucked up  
TG: and yeah sure i don't think that everyone has a soulmate and fuck if you're mine but i mean  
TG: i don't want you to hate me  
TG: you're a nice guy and you're kind of the only person i know in town but i mean uh  
TG: oh dear god i've fucked up haven't i  
TG: i've gotten so goddamned deep into this shit hole that i might as well be in that book  
TG: if i was paid for every foot i dug into the shit hole i would be fuckin rich now

CG: Oh my fucking god, shut up!  
CG: Shut up!  
CG: It's perfectly fine. Everything is great! Awesome! I have a life, and it's apparently way more than yours.  
CG: Which, honestly, is fucking depressing. I could expel a river of tears for the situation, if I really, truly gave enough of a shit. And I don't.  
CG: But, more to the point, it's not because I was angry with you.  
CG: I slipped and fell a few days ago. I had a few appointments to get the processors repaired. After that, I had to make sure nothing was broken.

TG: oh  
TG: well was there anything broken

CG: My pride.

TG: deep dude deep  
TG: so you're fine

CG: Sure, but why do you care?

TG: i don't know uh  
TG: uh  
TG: you want to go to lunch uh  
TG: i can pay

CG: Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Where?

TG: pizza place?

CG: Okay, fair. See you there.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 09:55 --

* * *

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] opened a memo on board OH GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE --

TG: i think i made a massive fuckin mistake this is possibly the worst thing i've ever done in my short two decade span of life

\-- paladinDad [PD] responded to memo at 9:56 --

PD: Oh my god what did you do Dave?

TG: i asked him out  
TG: not  
TG: like  
TG: romantically  
TG: just one on one

\-- mulletLover [ML] responded to memo at 9:57 --

ML: God you're just like Lance.

\-- loverBoy [LB] responded to memo at 9:57 --

LB: no he's not  
LB: i'm way cooler than him

ML: Nope.

PD: Look Dave you'll be fine.  
PD: You're really blowing this out of proportion.  
PD: Just be yourself.

\-- installWizard [IW] responded to memo at 9:59 --

IW: if he's anything like lance then he's fucked.

ML: Ha. Fair.

PD: PIDGE.

\-- installWizard [IW] has left the memo! --

TG: oh

PD: Oh my god. All of you. Out.

\-- [PD] banned [ML] from responding to memo --

PD: Dude just chill. It'll be fine and you'll do great.  
PD: You're a great guy and I'm sure that guy  
PD: Uh

TG: karkat  
TG: not that i'm really keeping track or anything

PD: Yeah  
PD: Karkat would be a really lucky guy to be friends with you.  
PD: Now honestly we've got a lot of work to do...  
PD: Okay at least I have a lot to do.  
PD: So hey maybe keep me posted but I've got to go.

\-- paladinDad [PD] left the memo! --  
\-- turntechGodhead [TG] has closed the memo --

* * *

 **KARKAT VANTAS** sits at one of the many somewhat greasy white tables in the pizza shop. He's been sitting at this table, alone, for ten minutes. In fact, he's considering leaving when the door swings open.

Looking up, he sees Dave. He seems less put together than usual, but he otherwise seems fine. A crumpled plastic bag, filled with what appears to be mostly crushed Kit-Kat candies, is clutched in his hand and, as he sits, he throws it across the table to Karkat. “Yeah, so,” he begins to explain, “I figured you liked these. 'Cause, y'know, they sound like you. Get it?” He laughs nervously. After this, he sits. He buries his hands in his pockets. “I... um... I'm sorry I'm so late. I got caught in... uh... traffic.”

“That's so fucking believable. I'm having a truth aneurysm.” Karkat taps his fingers against the tabletop. It's unconscious. It's a steady 3/4 beat. “If that's a lie, I'll straight eat my own shit. And that's saying a lot, because I'm _not_ straight.”

Another nervous laugh escapes Dave. He breathes a long, unknowable sigh. “I... Sorry. Uh... I'm... You're... Do you like chocolate?” To add a punch to his words, he shoves the bag of candies toward Karkat.

“Yeah. I guess.” The response is accompanied by a shrug. He opens up the bag and makes an attempt at eating a candy. It crumbles in his hand. Somehow, he finds his brows furrowing. “It's the thought that fucking counts, right?” A beat. “You feeling okay, Strider? You're beating around the bush with a metal mallet and it's not making much sense. Even the thing that's _in_ the fucking ugly-ass burnt out bush is confused.”

Dave continues to wring his hands together. His eyes stay locked on the ground, and his lips now form a straight line of deep thought. “You're... Um. I'm fine. Do you want to split the order or just get one pizza?”

“Buying one pizza is the best option. It's more cost efficient, unless you want to be an absolute dumbass. I'll just take a plain cheese pizza, if that's fine with you.”

“Mhm.” A nod. Dave removes his shades and polishes them against his shirt. He worries his bottom lip. “You look nice today.”

Karkat smirks. “Are you hitting on me?”

“No!” Dave reacts a bit too fast. His hands slam against the table; his nails dig into the hard plastic surface. “No! I'm just saying that you look nice. Don't have to be gay. You're making this into Netflix. Are you tryin' to be gay? Yeah? Yeah? You gotta work with this interface.” Despite his vehement opposition to the notion, his expression remains enigmatic, and his tone is similarly flat. “I'm... Not hitting on you.”

Though Karkat is skeptical, he recognizes the futility of pursuing the issue. Moreover, he realizes how much Dave would rather he _not_ press the concept. Instead, he redirects the conversation. “We've rescheduled the shoot to a week from today. That work with you?”

The tension in Dave’s shoulders seems to immediately dissipate. He pulls out his phone, taps at the screen, and shrugs. “Yeah. Looks great.”

“Awesome.” Now, Karkat finds himself at a loss for words. It's strange; he never seems to run out of things to say. And, yet, he has...

Dave, however, seems to have only just begun. “You said you had some other hobbies besides music. Last time we were together, y'know?”

“Yeah,” responds Karkat, stirring his ice tea with a thin black straw. “I do art. I like to read, obviously. Sometimes I volunteer up at the library. They have a reading room, and I'll do sign language for the kids.”

To Karkat's surprise, Dave seems to zero in on this. His brows shoot upward, rising far above the rims of his shades, and he smirks. “ _You_ work with kids? You haven't been kicked out for cussing them out?”

“I'm good with kids, actually. They like me. I don't know.” Though he can feel heat rising to his cheeks, he knows his complexion makes his blush invisible. Nonetheless, he can't help but feel embarrassed. Usually, he doesn't tell people about his reading sessions; really, he's not sure why he's telling Dave. He's similarly uncertain of why he continues to elaborate. “And, before you ask, no. I don't read. I read the book beforehand and sign in unison with the reader. It's a good way for the little kids to learn sign language, even if it is a fucking minuscule amount. I mean, that tiny pinch of fucking generalized knowledge won't let you have a fluent discussion, but it imprints the kids with this idea of, 'Hey, it's not a freak show! People exist who use this language!' Older folks will also come, since they're dealing with hearing loss. Same reason as the kids, really. They're less common, though...”

“Any reason you picked up doing that?” Dave asks. By now, the pizza has arrived. He's busy working at a slice of it, from which stringy cheese drips like runny glue.

“I used it when I was a kid. Helped me out, I guess. I figured I could at least return the fucking favor.” Karkat, too, takes a slice. Though he's been insistently repeating that he doesn't really care for Dave, he can't help but find the discussion pleasant. Perhaps it's because this isn't the typical interaction he has with the blond. Usually, Dave is spouting outrageous bullshit. Today, though, he seems to be acting like a somewhat normal human being. “Why'd you stop making music?”

A shrug. “I guess I just figured I'd make more money with photography. I've been looking at it again, though.”

“Well, if you start back up, feel free to let me know.” Here, Karkat pauses. He looks down to his watch, sighs, and shakes his head. “Anyhow, I have to go. I have an appointment with the publisher. Have to talk some shit about Rose's book cover. They want to make it so damned ugly I'd rather rip my eyes out with a rusty spoon than chance so much as a inconsequential gander at it, primarily out of a pants-shittingly real fear that its pure, incomparable hideousness would blind me.”

“Descriptive.” Dave nods. “You need a ride?”

Karkat, waving, departs. “Not this time, Strider. I'll catch you around later.”

“Yeah,” Dave responds, his voice oddly distant, “See you 'round...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and feedback are always welcome!!!


	20. INTERLUDE: The Garden Of Earthly Delights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the title is honestly one of my favorite paintings on the planet, primarily because the painting is lit as fuck. if you're into... uh... nudity, beastiality, and legitimate music stamped on a man's ass in hell, then you can see a very large version and read more about it [**by clicking here**](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Garden_of_Earthly_Delights)!  
>     
>  **CONTENT WARNINGS: this is like 75% pesterlogs** and there're even more voltron kids

**ROSE LALONDE** sits across a table from her soulmate, Kanaya Maryam. Though she has known her for less than six months, she feels compelled to do what she is about to do. In her left hand, she holds a small box. In this box, there is a ring. It’s not excessively gaudy; it’s more of a plain silver band, upon which is mounted a small diamond.

“Is there any reason you’ve brought me here, to what I’ve mentioned _multiple times_ is my favorite.” A pointed stab at the juicy, rare steak before her emphasizes the statement. With the slow, steady patience of a seasoned chess player, a smirk spreads across her face. Her brows raise by a near-imperceptible amount. It’s as if she _knows_ what’s happening. “I mean, this isn’t exactly your type of place, is it? From what I gather, you’re more interested in southern style restaurants. Home-style places, like Cracker Barrel.”

Two, however, can play this game. Rose returns Kanaya’s air of mystery. She flips the box over between her fingers, twirling it like a tiny baton. She keeps her lips curled into the perfect image of a coy smile. “I do. Are you saying I cannot possibly sacrifice my own personal inclinations every once in a while to satisfy the needs of my dearest girlfriend?” Even as she says the word, it seems strange. ‘Girlfriend’... ‘Girlfriend’...

_No, Kanaya is so much more than a simple girlfriend. She’s a shining light. A gorgeous, ethereal goddess..._

Rose shakes her head. She snaps out of her reverie just in time to hear Kanaya’s response.

“I see.” Her thick lips thin slightly, as she presses them together. “Well, I appreciate the sentiment.”

“I shall note this in my running diary of things that I have done which have been acknowledged to have pleased Kanaya Maryam.” Rose finds herself blushing. Though her complexion is tanner than that of her half-brother, it’s not nearly dark enough to hide the rising heat. There’s a tug at the back of her mind, an inexorable pull, which drives her to ask the question. But she can’t. Not now. Not yet. “Hm.”

“Hm?”

“I ordered another virgin mixed drink half an hour ago. Where do you suppose it could be?” In asking this question, Rose is hoping to redirect Kanaya’s attentions. Right now, her plan involves her setting the box in front of Kanaya’s plate.

And, as her studies of her girlfriend’s behavioral patterns led her to believe, Kanaya takes the bait. She turns to look for a waitress.

In this brief moment of inattentiveness, Rose slips the box into place, just in front of the basket of bread. When Kanaya turns around once more, Rose speaks again. “Would you mind getting me some bread?” To give her an excuse to not do so herself, she begins cutting into her own steak.

Kanaya’s smirk grows, but it falters slightly when she sees the box. There’s a moment of fear, but t subsides when the expression softens, turning to a smile. “Surprisingly shy move, Rose Lalonde.”

”I do like to keep such personal matters low-key.” The heat rising to Rose’s cheeks increases. Now, it burns. “So, what do you say?”

”What do you think I’ll say?” Kanaya asks, raising a brow.

Again, Rose hesitates. “Well, I’m hoping you say ‘yes’.”

“And that is exactly what I was going to say,” Kanaya grins. She leans across the table and plants a soft kiss on Rose’s cheek. “What do you say we... celebrate properly... when we get home?” She waggles her brows.

Rose can’t help but snicker. “Of course,” she nods.

* * *

\-- mulletLover [ML] began pestering loverBoy [LB] at 11:21 --

LB: i beat you to it  
LB: this is my chat now  
LB: seriously  
LB: though  
LB: why're you pestering me  
LB: we're in the same room

ML: Have you looked around you?  
ML: Do you want Pidge and Hunk and Shiro to know about all our bullshit Lance? Do you?

LB: i mean i have nothing to be kinkshamed so i don't care

ML: ...  
ML: Why do I date you?

LB: because i'm one hot piece of man

ML: That is quite possibly the worst and most inaccurate reason you could've given, you massive dork.  
ML: Whatever.  
ML: That's not the problem the problem is that Shiro apparently invited that new kid over for lunch or something with the guy he's obviously gay for but fucking refuses to acknowledge that he's gay for him.

LB: how is this a problem  
LB: i can finally kick this dude's ass  
LB: i'm the cool guy of the group

ML: Lance!  
ML: Focus!

LB: i am always focused

ML: ... Okay.  
ML: Well Shiro wants it to be some sort of potluck or whatever.

LB: and that means pidge and hunk will steal all the thunder  
LB: that's not fair  
LB: hunk was a culinary arts student  
LB: this is bullshit

ML: There we go! That's focus!  
ML: So what do you think we should make?

LB: we've gotta blow this party out of the water  
LB: light this place up like a firecracker  
LB: wait  
LB: where is this being held

ML: Shiro's place.

LB: okay  
LB: give me like ten minutes to brainstorm and i'll get back to ya dude

LB: shit i forgot to close the chat  
LB: i texted you my idea  
LB: i hope no one else saw this

\-- loverBoy [LB] ceased pestering mulletLover [ML] at 13:21 --

* * *

\-- paladinDad [PD] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 11:30 --

PD: So I'm kind of in the middle of making sure the new program Pidge whipped up isn't actually some sort of prank where the AI is built to work well for a few days before suddenly starting to spit out meme text so I can't talk for long.  
PD: I just wanted to let you know that I'm hosting a party at my place. All my Voltron pals will be there.

TG: you mean those fuckin weirdos who keep blowing the shit out of my pesterchum like a dumbass cowboy chucks too much tnt at a bank safe

PD: Yeah!  
PD: Since I'm a friend of Kanaya's I'll also have her and your sister over.

TG: she ain't my sister  
TG: she's my half sister

PD: Okay.  
PD: Your _half sister_ then.

TG: holy shit  
TG: how did you make the slant text  
TG: italics  
TG: what the fuck

PD: Sorry that's a Voltron Tech secret.  
PD: Getting back to the point the party is at my place.  
PD: 1984 Cofod Lane.  
PD: Obviously the city is Skaia.  
PD: Starts at 7:30 Wednesday night. Sound good?  
PD: It's a potluck too so bring something good.

TG: uh  
TG: yeah  
TG: sure  
TG: whatever

PD: Awesome! See you there! Dress code is casual.

TG: got it  
TG: dress code is nudist

PD: Okay kid what the fuck?

TG: sorry  
TG: i misread that

PD: Oh. Ha ha! Happens to the best of us!

TG: dress code is swimsuit

PD: ...  
PD: I'm just going to trust that you have enough common sense to not do that.

TG: ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

PD: ...  
PD: Oh god you are just like Lance this is going to be a nightmare.  
PD: Uh.  
PD: Just be on your best behavior because Karkat is also invited.

TG: WHAT

PD: Yeah.  
PD: Kanaya wanted him to come too. She and Rose apparently have some sort of big announcement or whatever that they're going to be making.

TG: oh jesus  
TG: i know what that means  
TG: fine i'll be there

PD: I'm begging you to not show up nude or in a swimsuit kiddo.

\-- paladinDad [PD] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 11:55 --

* * *

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 11:55 --

TG: oh my god  
TG: you did it you asked her  
TG: that's what this is about right

TT: My dearest half-sibling, I haven't the foggiest idea of what you could possibly be babbling about this time. Who is this 'she' you are mentioning and what, precisely, would I have asked her? Please elaborate.

TG: you know ex fucking actly what i'm talkin about rose  
TG: rose  
TG: rose

TT: Nope! I am wholly and blissfully ignorant of this allegation. In fact, your overment is so incredibly vague I'm not even sure I can confidently say that it has negative connotations. For all I know, I should be immensely flattered by my dearest family's interest in my life! However, the answer to your question will not be found today. Nor will it be found tomorrow. Nor will it be found on the day after that! Ha ha. Hoo, hoo hoo, and so on and so forth.

TG: rose  
TG: rose you fuckin shit i know you're marrying kanaya  
TG: rose

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 12:09 --

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] has blocked you! Oh no! --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as per usual feedback and comments are always welcome! i'm a dumbass who does like zero beta editing so if you see anything wrong please hmu


	21. I Can’t Stop Loving You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it’s not obvious, the hierarchy of relationships here is DaveKat > RoseMary > Klance

**KARKAT VANTAS** arrives to the party dressed in the most unassuming outfit he could find. It's a black pullover sweater and a pair of grey jeans. His oft-wild hair has, with a great deal of help from Kanaya, been tamed; it's swept back, out of his face. Though Kanaya said he didn't have to bring a dish, he made one. His freshly prepared curried chicken is tucked into a large glass container, which he holds under his left arm.

The home's living room is huge, though not quite as large as Kanaya's. The floor's oak wood is polished to a fine sheen, and he can see his face in its reflection. He sees the ragged scar along his left temple, and the hints of puckered skin just barely poking out from the starched mandarin collar of his shirt. He finds himself snarling and tugging at his collar, pulling until the whole shirt is slightly out of line, but the scar is covered.

He steps toward the long granite countertop, places his dish on top, and scuttles off to the nearest quiet spot. This just so happens to be a singular plastic chair, seemingly stolen from a local school, which is jammed into the far northeastern corner of the home. It's as if it's a time-out chair. Not that Karkat really cares. He'll take peace and quiet in any form. He settles down, folds his arms across his chest, and closes his eyes. He prepares to spend the whole party as he usually does, sleeping, only to be rudely interrupted.

The culprit is an older man, who Karkat recognizes as Shiro from Kanaya's photos. Up until now, he's never actually met this man; he's heard stories, but their schedules never overlapped. Nonetheless, this man acts as though he's known Karkat forever. “Any reason you're over here, sulking, instead of joining the party?” He gestures towards a somewhat short woman. Her strawberry blonde hair hangs in her face, falling in front of a pair of large, round glasses. “Pidge is just getting started setting up the Roomba race.”

Karkat responds with furrowed brows and a confused grimace. “I'm sorry. Maybe I heard you wrong, because that happens all the fucking time, but...”

Shiro laughs. It's a deep, hearty sound. It seems the polar opposite of Dave's subdued shows of bemusement. “Roomba race. She's got some Roombas set to follow a really crazy path around the living room, and we're going to see which one goes faster. Weird, I know, but that's just the sort of stuff we like around here.”

A slow nod serves as Karkat's answer. He wonders how Kanaya ever acquainted herself with this group, though he also considers that she has a wide social influence. For all he knows, she merely designs the uniforms for this particular company, and the party is being hosted as a favor. (He doubts this, though. Kanaya would never accept such an obvious power trade.) After a few moments, he offers further retort, “Hey, no offense, but that doesn't sound like something I'm interested in. Really, I'm here because Kanaya dragged me along. I'm too much of a fucking dumbass to be truly, unabashedly rude.” He twiddles his thumbs.

Shiro, meanwhile, shrugs. “Suit yourself. I think I saw Dave around here somewhere. Everyone is trying to keep him from running into Lance.” As he says this, Shiro points to a tall, slender man. His tan skin complements his brown hair, and his sky blue eyes sweep the room warily. “He's a good guy, but he's convinced Dave is trying to take his place as the group's so-called cool kid.”

“Yeah, from what I understand about Dave, that dumbass is too lazy to actually invest the effort to overthrow anyone in an otherwise irrelevant friend group.”

A nod, as if to agree with this point, is offered by Shiro. Then, as if he's lost interest, he wanders off.

Once again, Karkat tries to fall asleep.

Once again, his attempts are interrupted.

A man, with a build similar to Dave's, steps up. His black hair is styled into the perfect image of a mullet, and his lips form a pronounced frown. His hands are buried in his pockets and, when he speaks, his voice commands attention. “You're Karkat, right?”

“Yeah, I fucking hope so.“

Though there's a flicker of a smile, this man remains stoic. His voice has more emotion than Dave's, though. “Fair. Name's Keith. If you're looking for the idiot wearing sunglasses inside, he went that way.” He points to a pair of glass doors, through which a small courtyard is visible.

By the time Karkat looks to thank Keith, however, he's gone. Considering the fact that he doesn't really feel like chasing strangers for a minor gesture, he heads for the indicated area. As soon as the door opens, he feels the cool breeze. The smell of cigarette smoke fills his nostrils, and its source is as plain as the clouds in the sky.

* * *

**DAVE STRIDER** looks blankly at Karkat. He pulls his cigarette away from his lips just long enough to acknowledge him. “'Sup?” he says, replacing his cigarette immediately afterwards. When he next speaks, he simply lets the cigarette dangle from his mouth. “You met everyone? They're a bunch of nerds.”

“You're a nerd, too, dumbass.”

Shrugging, Dave drops the cigarette. He grinds it between the heel of his sneaker and the stone tiles of the courtyard and, once it's been put out, he pockets it. “Fair. I'm hiding from Rose out here. Don't feel like hearing the news.”

“Oh, that she and Kanaya are getting married?” Karkat sighs. He sits down at the wrought iron patio table, upon which there's a glass of half-finished cider. “You working on this?” Karkat asks.

Dave shakes his head. “Nah. Tastes too nice. I like my alcohol to be mid-range. I ain't here for a fine time, I'm here for a fun time.”

There's a long pause. When it finally ends, Karkat nods. Obviously, he doesn't really understand what Dave has said. All he seems to be interested in is consuming the contents of the glass.

And, once the glass is empty, Dave finds himself smirking. “I thought you said you didn't like drinking.”

Karkat, too, smirks. “I don't. I'm just here because Kanaya made me come, and I might as well wallow in my grief. Woe is me, the dumbass with a soulmate with the emotional range of a rusty teaspoon.” There's an odd look on his face, and Dave can't read it.

This unnerves him. The only person he could never read was his father, and he never had any warm, loving moments with that man. In fact, the older he gets, the more Dave resents his father. Each year adds another brick onto the wall of shame, it seems. He finds himself having to stop and take a few deep breaths. This man obviously isn't Bro. This is Karkat and, as much as Dave hates to admit it, he feels safe and comfortable around him.

And, as if to demonstrate why, Karkat speaks up. The concern in his voice is palpable. “You okay over there, Strider?”

Dave nods. He reaches into his pocket, withdraws another cigarette, and places it between his lips. Despite a moment of hesitation, he lights it. “Fine.”

A gruff huff serves as Karkat's reply.

Dave, meanwhile, can't help but dig a bit into the other man's statement. As he watches the festivities through the doors' glass, he inquires, “What, are you one of those soulmates-are-forever people?”

“You mean a sentimental piece of bullshit? Yeah. I sure as fuck am.” Karkat announces this fact with gusto, as if he's proud of it.

To Dave, this is strange. He's never before met someone with such confidence in their emotions. Most of the people he knows are driven by their intellect. (Then again, the only people he knows outside of the internet are the increasingly ridiculous fools at this party, his half-sister, her soon-to-be-wife, and the inexplicably attractive jerk he's talking to.) Somehow, he finds this trait appealing. He's drawn to it. _Maybe,_ he reasons, _it's the novelty of it. Of course! That's it. There's nothing more to it. It's nothing more than an interest in a novel character trait._

“I'm a big romance junkie. Kind of explains why I'm an editor for the romance genre, huh?” Karkat flashes a small smile. After this, he looks through the glass, at which point he comes to the same conclusion as Dave. “Looks like they've announced the big fucking news. The world is shaken to its core.”

Inside, people are celebrating. Bottles of alcohol are being poured out (with Rose opting for sparkling water), and a large man, with tan skin and dark hair, is firing a confetti cannon. Clearly, there's a great deal of jubilant feelings going down in there, and Dave is more than happy to not be taking part.

“Sure as hell does. Look at those fuckers. They party like the world is going to end tomorrow. And, hell, if the world ends tomorrow, they'll probably still be partying. They'll just keep going, like the goddamned Energizer Bunny.“ By now, Dave is aware that he's rambling. It's an old fallback. Whenever he gets nervous, or he feels uncomfortable, he'll ramble. He's never been sure of why he does it, but he knows it happens. He's _making_ it happen, and the only thing that stops him is Karkat's interjection.

“You make so little sense that I could flag down a fucking high-horse academic fuckwad, ask them for their opinion, and even they'll be at a loss for words.” By now, Karkat has taken an interest in the empty glass. He holds it up, to the brightness of the courtyard's light, and studies the dancing, refracting colors. The action seems to highlight his face and its peculiarities.

Despite the nagging voice in the back of his head, which begs him to do otherwise, Dave finds himself studying Karkat. He takes in the smooth texture of his hair; he wonders how soft it would be between his fingers. He looks at Karkat's face, and he ruminates about the sensation of his scars beneath his touch. It seems like a connection between them, that they're both marked by these remnants of a less-than-stellar past. And his lips... Karkat's lips just _look_ nice, like they'd be perfect interlocked with...

_No!_

Dave shakes his head, desperately discarding all his prior thoughts. He once again prematurely extinguishes his cigarette, turns his back on his conversational partner, and heads for the doors. He needs air. He needs space _away from Karkat_. He needs to think things through.

“I'm thirsty,” Dave huffs. He knows it's a piss-poor excuse for an excuse, but it's all he can come up with. It's the most his muddled mind can dredge up, and it's what he goes with. “I've got to go get some water. Don't stay up waiting for me.”

“I... Okay. Bye.” When Dave chances a glance backwards, he sees the confusion on Karkat's face. And, beneath this, he sees a sort of hurt.

But, right now, Dave doesn't have time to worry about the rising guilt. He doesn't have enough extra space in his mind to worry about it. Right now, he's confused as hell, and he has to find a safe, quiet place. He needs solitude, and he needs time to sort things through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, comments and feedback are welcome!


	22. Number 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNING: Dave’s section is kinda bloody. Mildly disturbing. Viewer discretion is advised.™**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title of the song is The Beatles' experimental track, [**listen to it here**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HWmvbxGpra4)! sorry this is so short.

_**DAVE STRIDER** stands in the middle of a darkened room. Despite the dim lighting, he can see the stone floor tiles; they’re covered in blood. Shards of his shattered shades have embedded themselves in his face. His hands are numb and shaking. His mouth hangs open._

_A man towers over him. His shoulders are broad, but his body is thin. A sword is clutched in his right hand, and the glare he levels at Dave can be felt through his pointed shades. He never speaks. Instead, with a silence deadlier than any word a human being could possibly utter, he sweeps the blade in an arch._

_The back of the one-edged blade slams into Dave’s shoulder. A smirk graces the enigmatic man’s face. “That’s for being a pussy,” he spits out a wad of tobacco. “You ain’t worth shit, kid. You ain’t goin’ nowhere in life, and that’s a goddamned promise.”_

_A large, skeletal hand pulls a wad of photographs from the pocket of a pair of pressed black slacks. As the photos are held up, the man lets forth a low, mirthless laugh. “Look at this bullshit. Pictures. You think you’re goin’ anywhere with some fancy pictures?” A lighter is produced, and the photos are set on fire._

_“I ain’t got time for your shit, kid.” As the man speaks, the ashes of the photographs fall to the ground. Some of them still burn faintly. “You’re a pussy, kid. That’s what you are. You’re a sad, dumb, ugly pussy.” The photos are dropped, still aflame._

_As they fall, Dave instinctively reaches out to catch them._

_There’s a loud bang. The door, which had formerly been ajar, slams shut. The room’s only light source is snuffed out, and Dave is left in the dark..._

 

“Fuck.” Dave groans. He sits up and glances at the clock on his bedside table. 1:02. It’s 1:02 in the morning, and he’s genuinely surprised he’s actually awake.

Normally, nightmares don’t wake him. Normally, he doesn’t give so much as a singular flying profanity about them.

This one is different. This one was more than a nightmare; this was a memory. Or, at least, he thinks it’s a memory. He’s done his damndest to forget most of his time with his piece-of-steaming-shit-filled-trash father. So, perhaps, this is more of an amalgamation of many memories. It’s fragments of reality glued together to form a mosaic of horror. And, apparently, it was just shocking enough to wake Dave from an otherwise average night’s sleep.

“Fuck.” Dave draws his knees to his chest and presses his forehead against them. He tangles his fingers in his hair.

Was there a meaning for this? Was there a meaning in this?

His father despised him. This much, Dave is sure of. He knew his father hated his guts. Every day, he was nothing more than the personification of his father’s failures. He was a walking testament to a failed soulmate connection. He was many things: a pussy, an idiot, a jackass, a disappointment, a goddamned piece of shit. But, he was never a son.

That, however, doesn’t seem to be what the dream was getting at. Dave isn’t sure why he knows this, aside from a sneaking suspicion.

No, there’s something more. Something deeper. But, what is it?

* * *

_**KARKAT VANTAS** finds himself in the middle of a field. The grass is long and untamed. He's sprawled out on his back, and the blades brush against his exposed skin. Wind whips the fluffy white seeds from the dried dandelions nearby; they float away, disappearing into the clouds. Against this sky, its blue marred only by the pure white of the occasional passing cloud, there's a singular crow. It flies in circles. Around and around. Looping. Repeating._

_He realizes that he's wearing what basically amounts to rags. They cover him, yet they make him feel exposed. He's never enjoyed revealing his past, which is written on his skin, like sprawling calligraphy across an illuminated manuscript's vellum page._

_As this thought crosses his mind, the crow caws. It breaks it cyclical pattern and swoops down. Its beak opens wide; it makes a straight line for Karkat. Naturally, he ducks. He covers his head with his hands and stumbles back. He loses his footing and falls. The formerly flat plains, amidst which he had formerly been lounging, have turned to hills. He tumbles, and it just seems to keep going. He resigns himself to spending this rest of his dream falling, only for something to stop him._

_He looks up._

_Dave Strider stands before him. His face is plastered with the same, apathetic expression he always has. His brows are furrowed, and his gaze is locked ahead, staring into the distance._

_“What the hell are you doing here?”_

_Dave seems to begin to say something. He opens his mouth. Then..._

 

Karkat wakes, gasping for air and covered in a cold sweat. His thoughts are entrenched in a muddy swamp of confusion.

Slowly, his breathing evens out. He heaves a long, shaky sigh. He buries his face in his hands and lets forth a groan.

Obviously, he's supposed to be drawing a conclusion from whatever the hell his sleeping consciousness dreamed up. There's something there. There's a meaning, a revelation. But, what is it?


	23. The Best Things in Life Are Free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, two dates and both go wildly different. No Voltron kids are in this chapter, so if you came for their bullshit you’ll be disappointed. Sorry. (I mean this _is_ and _was_ was primarily DaveKat fic...) For the song, it’s pretty easy to find. I’m aiming for the Bioshock version, but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ whatever floats ur boat. As per usual, I suck at beta reading so comments and feedback and going “you made a typo” are always welcome! This was also typed on my phone so if something makes no sense let me know because that’s Autocorrect™

**DAVE STRIDER** sits across a scratched and dented wooden table from Karkat Vantas. Behind his shades, his eyes search desperately for something to lock onto. His throat is dry, and he can feel the sweat beading on his forehead. When he opens his mouth to speak, the voice that comes forth doesn’t seem entirely his; it’s distant and alien. “You... uh... Rose says you like shitty movies.”

Karkat tilts his head to the side. The edges of his lips twitch. First, they form a smile; then, a frown. His brows furrow. “That’s a shit way to start a discussion.”

“Okay.” Dave pauses. He coughs. He tries again. “Why don’t we uh... Let’s start all this shit over, huh? We got off on the wrongest foot possible. It’s like we tried to get off the horse and we fell sfat on our faces in the dense mud of disdain.”

Karkat takes a moment to ponder this. He prods at the meal before him, which is comprised of an almond waffle, and sighs. “Okay. Fine.” He waves his hand, with the fingers splayed. “Hi. My name’s Karkat Vantas.”

“Yeah, that’s the fuckin’ spirit. I’m Dave.”

“Great. So, what exactly was the whole point of you holding me hostage for yet another inevitably pointless think tank session from the deepest and most perilous depths of hell?” After speaking, Karkat shovels some of his waffle into his mouth. His eyes dart around for a moment, before settling on Dave. “You and I both know this isn’t just a friendly professional meeting. I’m doing fine as the model for Kanaya’s male brand, and you’re apparently blowing it out of the fucking water with your photography. So, I’m going to ask again: why are we here?” At this point, Karkat offers a look. It’s the expression a parent gives their child when they know something is up, and they’re waiting for the hapless kid to spill the beans.

And, as much as Dave would love to say he’d never let his lips be loosened, he can’t survive for long under such scrutiny. He caves, but he does so in a spectacularly Strider-esque way. “Yeah, well, you see, it’s kind of a conundrum, right? Let’s say there’s, like, two cowboys. And they’re both rustlin’ some fuckin’ cattle, right? Well, it’s like they realize the cows are all mixed up, so they’re just trying their best to figure out whose cow is whose. And you can be damned sure they ain’t doin’ it without some choice words.”

This reply elicits a blank stare. A long pause follows it, and it’s only broken by Karkat setting down his coffee on the table. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “That made no fucking sense.”

“‘Kay, so, in this situation, we’re the cowboys. And our feelings are the cows,” Dave explains.

This seems to only provoke Karkat further. “Those are _your_ feelings, dumbass. I have nothing to do with this. We both know we’re soulmates, but I can’t fucking fathom how.”

“Same.” A succinct reply to a complex problem.

Karkat, meanwhile, has a characteristically intense rebuttal. “You’ve done nothing but run fucking circles around this issue. You’ve avoided it from the moment we’ve met, and I know for a goddamned fact that you were perfectly aware of our connection.” The tone is accusatory, but the expression on his face is strangely soft. “What the fuck are you trying to do here?”

Dave hums thoughtfully.

He wants desperately to express what he knows he wants. There’s a part of him that wants to see just how soft Karkat’s lips are, and to embrace him. But, there’s also another side. There’s a part of him that can’t stand the thought of being vulnerable around another man. And, today, the latter half wins. “Hm. I dunno. Guess it’s just a casual lunch, right?”

“I...” Karkat seems as if he’s going to say more. Then, without warning, he stops. He shakes his head. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s just eat our damned lunches.”

Though Dave is inclined to agree with this suggestion, he also loathes silence. It’s something that’s come to signal a lack of warmth. It’s a pride to the attack. So, he resorts to his old fallback. He begins to talk to himself. “‘Take Karkat to lunch,’ I said. ‘Nothing could possibly go wrong!’ I said. Well, damn, I truly am a once-in-a-lifetime oaf. Butter me up and serve me on a loaf of pumpernickel bread with a side of dumbass dip.”

“I mean...” When Karkat speaks, there’s an odd softness to his voice. It’s reassuring, on the same way a pat on the back might be. “This isn’t horrible. Sure, I wouldn’t have picked _fucking Waffle House_ , but it’s not irrevocably unbearable, either. It’s not like Waffle House sucks. You’re just some strange company.”

Dave nods.

Normally, he wouldn’t care about what’s been said. He’d gobble up his cheap breakfast food and be out. For some reason, though, Karkat manages to calm him. The clawing anxiety in his chest has, for the time being, died down to little more than a whimper.

Then, it happens. The warmth begins in the pit of his stomach. It rises, then radiates outwards. It flows throughout his body. He can hear his own heartbeat. Every thump.

“You know,” Karkat speaks up, interrupting Dave’s innermost thoughts. “I guess you’re not the worst company I could have. You’re sort of bearable. I guess.” He shrugs. A snicker of laughter escapes him.

Dave feels his heart flutter. He does his best to press it back down. “That’s cool. Thanks.”

The dismissive commentary seems to get under Karkat’s skin. He frowns and silently returns to his lunch. Yet, Dave doesn’t feel the satisfaction he expected; instead, he feels empty.

And, this gnawing emptiness—a sort of disappointment—continues to plague him for the rest of the meeting. Even when Karkat strikes up some shitty small talk, he can’t shake the sense of doing something wrong.

It’s something he’s never before had to contend with. He’s usually unapologetic. Sure, he’ll make amends if he steps on some toes. But, otherwise, he’s never really _needed_ to apologize. Who would he apologize to? His father? In a different universe, maybe. Rose? Neither wants to be the first to do that.

So, when lunch ends and the two part ways, it leaves Dave with a stale taste in his mouth. There’s a weight against his chest, and a spiritual tightness around his heart, and both only grow as he returns home.

* * *

**ROSE LALONDE** sits across the table from Kanaya, who just so happens to be wearing the most gorgeous jade maxi dress. She swirls some of the ice water in her stemware around, as if it were wine, and smirks before speaking up. “So, wedding plans...”

“Yes, wedding plans.” Kanaya hums thoughtfully. Her smooth shoulders are bare, revealed by the sleeveless dress. This hardness also shows off a tattoo on her right bicep, which depicts an ornately rendered, flowering Rose. (Rose later learned that this was _not_ her soul mark. Interestingly enough, Kanaya had opted to receive this tattoo for her twentieth birthday, and chose the rose as the image.)

“I presume I should invite my idiotic half-brother?” Rose tuts. From her bag, she produces a black leather journal. She flips it open and plucks a pink gel pen from behind her ear. As she thinks, she clicks it. “And you will undoubtedly be inviting your roommate.”

Kanaya smiles.

A shiver runs down Rose’s spine.

“Yes, inviting your half-brother would be the politically correct thing to do. Add that annoying man to the empty guest list.” Kanaya’s reply is spoken with an air of false loftiness. She gestures dramatically, and her thick lashes flutte lr briefly. Then, unable to contain herself any longer, she laughs. The sound is not brash; it’s more akin to a series of quiet chuckles, with small snorts interspersed throughout. Once she’s seen that Rose has written this information down, she continues, “So, that’s one. And we’ll invite Shiro, from the labs. You met him at the party. He _hosted_ the party.”

A nod from Rose. “Spectacular! I must admit that his stuffed mushrooms and steamed dumplings were worth committing vehicular homicide for.”

“Not to distract us from the task at hand,” interjects Kanaya, “But, to distract us from the task at hand, why specifically _vehicular_ homicide?”

“I suppose I am in a reckless mood today.” Rose shrugs. “If we are to invite Shirogane, I can only assume the rest of his gaggle of scientifically-minded nerds must also be provided formal summons?”

“Spot on, as usual, my dear. Your turn to pick a guest.”

“My cousin, Roxy. She will be absolutely delighted to attend.” As she speaks, Rose joys down the name. “We’re building up quite the guest list!”

“Indeed.” It seems as though Kanaya is about to say more, but she is interrupted.

A waiter appears and fills her wine glass.

And, afterwards, it seems as though an excited Maryam has lost her train of thought. She brings up an entirely different point. “For the venue, I was considering having it hosted at the downtown hotel.”

A wry smile spreads across Rose’s face. She leans across the table, until she’s close enough to toy with her fiancée’s hair. “Very interesting! _Which_ hotel, might I ask?”

“The key words of my statement were ‘was’ and ‘considering’, in that order. I _was_ considering the Attano Deluxe Hotel, but they were already booked.”

“Yes?”

“So, I’m not considering the art museum.”

Though she tries her best to hide it, Rose is sure her excitement is obvious. “That sounds nice.” As this is a new topic, Rose flips to a new page to write the down. “The art museum. Good. We have an idea for the venue.”

At this point, the waiter returns. The pair are given their dinners. For Rose, a steak is brought out. Kanaya, meanwhile, opted for a pasta dish.

Following this brief interruption, the pair resume their discussion. They share their meals with one another and babble excitedly back and forth.

The date is a unanimous success, and both return home satisfied, too, with th progress they’ve made with wedding plans.


	24. Here Comes the Sun*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CONTENT WARNINGS: more voltron, a nice pesterlog, UPDATE (28 August 2018) and an image!** sorry for the short chapter i think i've run out of big ideas at this point......

**DAVE STRIDER** stands underneath a large oak tree in the middle of the park. Smoke trails from his cigarette, rising in a spiraling line to the sky. His eyes, though hidden behind his usual shades, are locked on the passing grey clouds. He wonders if it’s going to rain. Perhaps, it might storm...

“Your dates aren’t going well, are they?” Rose speaks up, her voice carrying on the light breeze. When Dave turns toward her, he finds her in the grass, reading her book, as she has been for the last past two hours. She smiles. It’s a knowing grin, not unlike the smile a parent gives a child. “If you so desire, I can offer you tips.”

“I’m not looking for tips,” Dave lies. “And they’re just business meetings. Strictly formal,” he lies again. “There ain’t anything but the straightest formality going down at these shindigs. We’re two professionals in a fisticuffs over photo angles.”

A nod suffices as Rose’s answer. She returns to her book.

And, Dave continues speaking. “He’s a nice guy, but I’m straight as Legolas’ most trained and well-shot arrow. I know where I fly, and it ain’t there. Nah, this bird’s goin’ the other way for winter.”

“Mhm. I see,” says Rose. The smile has faded, but it’s still there. A sense of smugness hangs around her. “Well, perhaps this strange little bird needs a few friends to fly with.”

“I’ll admit that ain’t the worst of ideas.” As casually as he can, Dave shrugs. He buries his hands in his pockets and continues to nurse a rapidly dwindling length of cigarette. By now, the gently pulsating red tip is dangerously close to his lips, though he doesn’t really care. It doesn’t bother him.

Likewise, Rose ignores it. Instead, she pushes her agenda. “Perhaps you’re going about this the wrong way. Karkat is open to the possibility of you being his soulmate, as implausible as that may seem. So, engage him, in that respect.”

“You mean that I should lead the poor fuck on?”

”No!” Rose counters forcefully. “What I’m saying is robot more effort forth. You’re rather blasé about this; he’s not. Find some amicable middle ground.”

There’s a moment of silence, a thoughtful pause. Dave stands still. He plucks what’s left of his cigarette from his mouth. The smoldering end singes the inner portions of his middle and forefinger, but he doesn’t notice. He’s don’t this so many times that it doesn’t even register. After he’s ground the cigarette into the dirt, retrieved it, and pocketed it for proper disposal, he speaks up. “We both like pickles.”

“You...” The ever-eloquent Rose is at a loss for words. She stares blankly at her half-brother. After some time, she manages to come up with a reply. “No. No, no! Something else.”

“He likes romantic movies. I like to shit on them.”

“Yes! That’s perfect.” A look of simultaneous exasperation and relief washes over Rose. “Build off of that. See where it takes you.”

“M’kay.” Dave shrugs and resumes his cloud-watching.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] opened a memo on board DATING ADVICE --

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] responded to memo at 11:21 --

TG: okay so it's come to my attention that i am apparently not the suave cassanova i have been led to believe that i am

\-- loverBoy [LB] responded to memo at 11:21 --

LB: fucking finally he admits it  
LB: yeah you're as smooth as sandpaper dude

\-- mulletLover [ML] responded to memo at 11:23 --

ML: Lance would you shut up?  
ML: You're not helping at all.

LB: oh do i detect some embarassment  
LB: the great kogane is finally wrong

ML: That's it Lance you're in time out.  
ML: We'll talk about this later.

\-- [ML] banned [LB] from responding to memo! --  
\-- paladinDad [PD] responded to memo at 11:28 --

PD: Oh cool so we're all here I think.  
PD: Or at least everyone that might have something useful to say.

ML: Hunk isn't.  
ML: I think he's at some sort of cooking class or something. I never know where he is.  
ML: Like Lance. Who knows where that idiot is at any given time? He could be hanging out in some intergalactic space mall as we speak and none of us would know.

\-- bakingBro [BB] responded to memo at 11:30 --

BB: oh shit! i'm here!  
BB: sorry about that. i was uh...  
BB: so, see, i was trying to make some pastries and they kind of caught on fire.

PD: ...  
PD: Okay.

TG: that's all lovely and great shit but  
TG: i've got a little tiny bit of a problem  
TG: see  
TG: i can't seem to have a solid date  
TG: anything i do ends up blowing up like the highest grade tnt at the most prolific cowboy heist the frontier has ever known  
TG: which is to say  
TG: shit is going down  
TG: it's all getting fuckin fucked

PD: Okay kid.  
PD: Look.  
PD: It's not that hard.

ML: My first date with Lance ended with us getting banned from all American Applebee's locations for life.  
ML: Apparently physical fights are banned and it's frowned upon for people to accidentally knock out a waiter in the scuffle.  
ML: Who would've known?

TG: so you're saying to fight him

PD: That's not what he's saying.  
PD: I think he's trying to say that you'll have some bad dates.  
PD: Just roll with it.

TG: this was useless

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] closed the memo! --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **If you like the art included in this chapter, please consider checking it out and reblogging it via[my art blog](https://tt40art.tumblr.com/post/177492164479/yet-another-dave-strider-this-took-about-25)!**


	25. Tequila Sunrise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a song by the eagles, aka the assholes who cursed us all with hotel california. [**Here's a link to the song**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Hm1IkxLjx0)
> 
> **CONTENT WARNING: Pesterlogs! Again!**

**DAVE STRIDER** finds himself idly wandering down the main street of Skaia, which borders the park he frequents. The area is a thoroughfare for pretty much anyone who's anyone. After all, only the most prestigious shops and companies are allowed to establish themselves along this particular avenue. So, perhaps that's why Dave finds himself ducking in and out of upscale venues. Or, perhaps, it's because it's snowing. And it's not a soft, gentle, lovely snow. No, this is the swift, bitter, biting snow, which is less soft ice crystals and more “tiny, pointy, angry blades of frozen fury”.

As he enters a particularly high-end doughnut shop, he finds himself face-to-face with someone familiar.

Tall, lean, muscular, with a black mullet.

Dave pauses. He knows this man, but he can't exactly think of a name. Kenneth? Carl? He shrugs this off. After all, right now, all he _really_ wants is a coffee. With the confidence of a gold medal winner at the dumbass Olympics, he brushes past the familiar man. He orders his coffee, pays the ridiculous price, and takes a seat at a nearby table to wait for its appearance.

During this time, Mullet Man has made his way over to Dave. He sits down, in the seat across from Dave's, and folds his arms across his chest. It seems he, too, is waiting for something.

“Order for Keith Kogane!” calls one of the baristas. “Caramel latte with two shots of chocolate syrup.”

The familiar man rises, grabs his order, and returns to his spot.

And Dave, now armed with the knowledge of this man's name, speaks up. “You're one of Kanaya's friends, right?”

Keith pauses. His thick brows furrow, and the edges of his lips twitch, forming a momentary frown. “No,” he responds, frankly. “I'm not _really_ a friend of hers. _Shiro_ is. He orders our uniforms as custom tailored sets from her, for some stupid reason. I think it's a waste of money...”

Dave nods. He hadn't expected such a long-winded answer, though he's bored enough to accept it. In fact, he's bored enough to continue the conversation. “So, you at least know Kanaya?”

“Sure. I guess.” A confused shrug and somewhat irate eye-roll punctuate this statement.

Neither of these reactions deter Dave. With dogged persistence, he pushes for more information. “Cool. You have any idea what's been going down over at the fashionable Playboy mansion? I mean, I usually have more commissions coming in from her, but it's been goddamned radio silence from there for about a month. I might as well be Carl Sagan, sending out the Arecibo signal and waiting patiently for an answer we all know ain't coming any fuckin' time soon. We're broadcastin' into the deepest, moistest depths of goddamned space, here, and we ain't getting any shit back.”

Ironically, one might say that Keith reacts with radio silence. His confusion lasts for a couple of solid minutes. Then, it's broken by a simple conclusion, “You're worse than Pidge. Fuck, dude, you're worse than _Lance_.”

“Aren't y'all dating?”

“Sure, but that doesn't mean I have to love _everything_ about him,” Keith laughs. It's not the outrageous, mirth-filled giggling of an elated Rose, nor is it the throaty, hoarse snickers of Karkat. Rather, it's a dry laugh. “Look, you...”

“Order for David Strider. Coffee with a lot of milk and cream.”

“Hold that thought, dude,” Dave interjects. He rises, rushes off to retrieve his beverage, and returns. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

Keith shrugs. “I'm not a life coach. Have you tried contacting them. Y'know, like a normal person would?”

“Duh,” Dave counters, sipping at his coffee. “I obviously haven't gotten a reply.”

“Try again? I don't fucking know, dude.” At this point, Keith pauses. He glances at his watch. “Shit. I've got to go.” He wraps a scarf around his face, so that it covers his mouth, and snatches up his coffee. “Peace out, nerd. Have fun trying to woo your dude, I guess.”

* * *

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 13:05 --

CG: Hey.

TG: oh shit that was quick  
TG: how and where the fuck have y'all been  
TG: i say y'all but i mostly mean you  
TG: i mean uh  
TG: not to sound gay  
TG: but i guess that sounded pretty gay right

CG: First of all, dumbass, we're dating. Second of all, you're doing that thing again. You're rambling endlessly, running around in circles like the brainless oaf you are. Cut to the point, Strider.

TG: hey now i did exactly that

CG: Okay. Fucking fair. Touché.  
CG: Fair question, too. We've been having a little bit of an issue, I guess. Or I have, at lease. Kanaya's been too busy macking on Rose to really notice anything, I guess. She's still a great friend, and she's watched me like the most stubborn piece of shit hawk. To make a really long story short, I fell down the stairs.

TG: what  
TG: hold on i'll be right there

CG: Wait. No. You really don't need to do that.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 13:36 --

* * *

**DAVE STRIDER** stands at front door of Kanaya's mansion. He's been banging on it for the past ten minutes, and he's starting to wonder whether or not he's getting anywhere. Then, the door slides open.

Karkat is a welcome sight, though he's obviously been hurt. His left hand is heavily bandaged, and he leans heavily on a crutch in his left hand. Nevertheless, his brows are furrowed, as they often are, and his lips form a thin line of disdain. “I told you not to come down here, you stubborn bastard.”

“I managed to convince Rose to tell me what she knew about you on the way here,” Dave admits, smirking. He opens his backpack and pulls forth a brown paper bag. “I brought you some Bebop Bagels. Y'know, from the shop?”

Karkat reacts instantly. He reaches out, snatches the bag, and rips it open. After devouring an entire bagel in a matter of bites, he offers a pointed glare. Nevertheless, beneath it, there's a touch of softness. “Fine. I'll let you stay.” He steps aside. “Just drop onto the sofa.”

Dave obliges. As he does so, he speaks his thoughts. “So, any reason why I haven't been notified?”

“I figured it wasn't that important. Besides, you seemed to be fine.” Karkat shrugs. He follows and, when he reaches the sofa, he sits beside Dave. “And Kanaya likes having me as a model, for some reason. She tells me I'm part of the brand. Hate to see what happens if I die, then, huh?”

“Ominous. _If_ you die?” Dave smirks. He elbows Karkat's shoulder, though he does so gently. After all, he has no clue what's happened in the past month. “Is that a fuckin' threat?”

“No, it's a promise. I'm a vampire. Fuck you,” Karkat huffs. Despite his scowl, Dave can hear the bemused lilt in his voice. (Or, maybe, he simply _thinks_ he hears it.) “Do you always show up and try and break into your friends' houses?”

“Not really. I guess you're my only real friend 'round here, though, so I guess I do. How technical are we being with this definition? Do acquaintances count? Those fuckers from the Voltron company, are they in on this exclusive list?”

“Jesus, you verbose motherfucker,” exclaims Karkat, rolling his eyes, “Never mind. This survey is over. We don't need to torture ourselves with this prolonged examination of your sad, lacking social life. And, just so you know, those 'fuckers' sent me a lovely care package after Kanaya told them what happened.”

“Oh, so _they_ get to know, but I don't?”

Again, Karkat rolls his eyes. He shrugs. “I told Kanaya to keep it a secret from your prying little peepers, dumbass. I didn't want you flying off the goddamned handle. You seem anxious enough, I don't need you any higher strung than you already are.”

“I ain't high-strung, jackass,” Dave snaps. Shortly thereafter, it dawns upon him that he's only confirmed Karkat's suspicions. He feels heat rising to his cheeks and, unlike usual, he's unable to stop it. “Okay. Fine. Maybe you've got a point.”

“Mhm. Maybe I do. I'm fine, by the way. Like I fucking said, before you cut me off like the rude little shit you are, I didn't need you to come down here.” Karkat yawns. He stretches his arms above his head and, perhaps unconsciously, he slumps in Dave's direction.

Dave doesn't move him. He feels as if he should, but there's something about the physical contact that drives him to let Karkat remain where he is, with his head against Dave's shoulder. Perhaps, it's the warmth. Perhaps, it's his soft hair, which brushes against Dave's face with every movement. Perhaps, it's the chestnut-like scent, which fills Dave's nostrils and sends shivers down his spine. Whatever the reason is, he doesn't move him. In fact, he finds himself closing his own eyes, too...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and feedback are always welcome! i'm going to try and bring this fic to a close at some point..... one day..... but i'm running out of ideas again


	26. Candle in the Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter. I’m working on some more substantial ideas..... as per usual, let me know if you find any typos.

**DAVE STRIDER** wakes in an unfamiliar room. The ceiling is high, with a slowly spinning decorative fan at its center. The walls are covered by a soft green wallpaper, which is comprised of floral-accented stripes. The air smells of fresh-cut cedar wood, various spices, and coconut body lotion. Unlike his bed, which isn't "comfortable" by any definition of the word, the mattress he's lying on seems to conform to his body. He finds himself sinking into it, to the point that it takes him a great deal of effort to convince himself to leave its comfort.

On his bedside table, he finds a note:

Dumbass,  
You managed to fall asleep on my lap, like the goddamned pants-pissing baby you are. I did you the favor of having Kanaya help me haul your pitiful ass to the guest bedroom, so that your fragile sense of masculinity wouldn't be shattered. I hope you appreciate me, you disgusting cockwaffle. If you need to go home, and I know you probably do, go into the hallway and follow it to the staircase. Go to the first floor, and you should know your way from there. If it's past 12:30, I'm out. I have a doctor's appointment, and they're checking my stupid ankle. I guess I'll see you later.  
Fuck You,  
Karkat

Dave groans. He runs his fingers through his hair, then reaches up. Instinct drives him to adjust his shades, while reality informs him that there's nothing there. Panic rises within him, and he begins to look around the room. Sure, he doesn't _need_ to wear his shades everywhere. He simply _likes_ to wear them everywhere. They make him feel safe; they conceal his feelings. After a few moments of tying his stomach in a knot, he finds them resting on the bedside table. After donning them, he checks the time. It's exactly 12:30, so he assumes that Karkat won't be home.

He gathers his things and scurries into the hallway. Following the given directions, he slips out, into the front yard, unnoticed. From there, he returns to his car and heads home.

* * *

**ROSE LALONDE** , despite having no real proof, suspects that Dave has been with Karkat for the past few hours. After all, he didn't come home last night. And, perhaps, this should have worried her. Unfortunately, it did not. She simply took his absence as another instance of his odd personal habits. For all she knew, he could have gone bar-hopping. As long as he returned home in once piece, she'd be perfectly fine and free of any guilt. Much of this is in the back of her mind, though, as she just so happens to be cuddling with her fiancee when she hears the door swing open.

“Rose!” she hears her half-brother call. “Rose, you home?”

“Oh. Shit. Is that—?” Kanaya begins.

With a dismissive wave, Rose silences her. Throwing on her bathrobe, she creeps out of her room and into the hallway. She closes the door as quietly as she can, taking great care to ensure that Kanaya's presence isn't known. “Just returning after a long night out, are you?”

At this point, Dave staggers into view. His sunglasses are perched on top of his head, perhaps because the lights in the hallway are out, and his brows are furrowed. “Piss off, Rose. I just wanted to let you know I was home.” He rubs his hands together and casts aside the tattered leather coat he'd been wearing. As it lands on the nearby coat rack, he continues, “And stop smirking at me like that. I wasn't at Karkat's place.”

“Of course you weren't,” Rose chuckles. As her half-brother returns to his room, she reenters her own. “Kanaya, dear?”

“Yes?” Though a look of confusion crosses her face, it seems that Kanaya quickly understands what's happening. She mirrors her fiancee's coy smile. “Dave was most definitely at my house yesterday. Karkat and I dragged his unconscious ass from the living room sofa to the guest bedroom. And, yes, he was getting very close to Karkat.”

“Perfect!” Rose declares. “That was all I needed to know. Now, where were we?” Her smirk fades, and she leans against Kanaya, sinkingjnto her warmth.

* * *

**KARKAT VANTAS** stands beneath the tattered cloth remnants of what was once an overhang. Now, it is little more than the bare metal skeleton of an awning, over which straps of fading red fabric are haphazardly hung.

He finds himself wondering why this hodeoua affront to beauty is allowed to remain as it is. It’s not as if this is a particularly disenfranchised area. Main Street is just a few minutes away, on foot, and the surrounding storefronts are pristine. No, it’s just this one, singular, lonely barbershop. No other store is in such a state of disrepair. Why would it be?

Perhaps the owners have grown too old to repair it, or they’ve forgotten about the failing awning altogether. Perhaps it’s something there attached to, for some reason.

Karkat’s phone vibrates in his pocket, and he answers it.

A voice crackles into focus, though it takes all of Karkat’s concentration to parse the words. (Phone conversation has never been a strong suit of his. It’s hard enough to understand speech with the additional aid of visual input; doing so without this helpful bonus is, naturally, even more difficult.) By the cadence and careful pronunciation, Karkat knows who it is. She needn’t identify herself. “I’m so sorry, I seem to have forgotten about your appointment. You said you were able to call for a ride there?”

“Yeah,” Karkat huffs. “I did. But I don’t think I can rope Gamzee into driving me home. I’m not really sure I really want that bastardly little fuck to drive me back, anyhow.”

“I can respect that. I’m so trrribly sorry for having to call you. I’m driving.”

“Yeah, well, safety first.” Karkat sighs. He watches the sky, though he pays little attention to it. “So, you can pick me up?”

“I’m headed that way as we speak.” Even over the phone, Karkat can picture Kanaya’s face, complete with an apologetic frown. “I’ll be there shortly.”

“Awesome. Thanks.” Another sigh. Though he’s managed to walk this far from the doctor’s office, he’s keenly aware that he can’t go much further. Instead, he sits on a nearby oversized windowsill.

Then, he waits.


	27. How Do I Live (D8 Night Version)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per usual, comments and feedback are always welcome!! If you see any typos or bad autocorrects, please feel free to point those out, too. d(^_^o)

**DAVE STRIDER** has no idea what, exactly, being part of Rose’s so-called “honor guard” entails. He can only assume it’s the same as being a bridesmaid, albeit in a more gender-neutral setting. Hell, he’s not even sure _why_ Rose and Kanaya’s are even so set upon having such formalities seen through. The wedding will be, from what he understands, relatively small. The most he’d reckon are coming would be fifty. And why, for fifty goddamned people, do they need to have such elaborate festivities?

Obviously, he doesn’t know. He has no clue. If it were up to him, he’d get hitched at the courthouse and then hightail it outta there for the honeymoon. Said honeymoon would obviously be a trip somewhere. The destination wouldn’t have to be all that specific, but it would have to be outside of America.

Of course, Dave isn’t planning on getting married. Not any time soon. Not ever. He’s long since resigned to the lesson his father hammered into his head: He’s a loser, who is destined to live and die alone.

“Dave?” Rose’s voice interrupts Dave’s introspection. Her eyes are narrowed and, with her hands folded in her lap, she looks like a disapproving mother. (Not that Dave would really know what that would look like.) “I see you’ve checked back in with me. Do you accept my invitation?”

“Oh.” Dave shakes his head. He breathes in, clears his mind, and sighs. “Obviously. We might be at each other’s goddamned throats most of the time, but we’re still siblings, right? Well... half-siblings. You’re my sister from another mister.”

There’s a momentary pause. The cogs in Rose’s mind are obviously turning and, when they stop, she responds. “Indeed. I’m glad you’ve agreed. Karkat will be in Kanaya’s party. And, of course, you’re both invited to our respective bachelorette parties.”

Dave scoffs. “You’re actually having one of those? They’re dumb as fuck.”

“Well, then, you don’t _have_ to come. I’m merely pointing it out.” An unaffected shrug punctuates this succinct statement. Rose turns her back to Dave and heads for her office. “By the way, your half of the expenses is still overdue.”

Heat rises to Dave’s cheeks, lighting them with a brilliant shade of red. He bows his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I get it. You think I need to do something other than photography.”

The way Rose shrugs is both infuriating and expected. There’s little emotion in her voice, but a coy smugness is written plainly across her face. “Maybe. I’m not saying that you should abandon your dreams, but you might want to invest in doing something more.”

“Yeah, I’ll think about it. Thanks, Mom,” Dave growls.

Rose, in return, offers a wave. Then, she disappears into her office.

 

While he knows that Karkat said he didn’t need to do anything special for him, Dave felt obligated to bring something over. It’s what happens on TV, after all. When someone is sick, all their friends make them meals. So, Dave figures, he should bring Karkat something.

It’s for that reason that he stands in front of the Maryam-Vantas household, with a serving of clearly-not-Olive-Garden-pasta inside a ceramic pan (which he unabashedly stole from Rose).

“You,” Karkat greets him as he opens the door, “I told you not to do anything special.” He shifts his weight on his singular crutch. “Whatever. Come on in, loser.”

“As you wish,” Dave mutters, mirroring the dialogue from some dumb romance movie Karkat made him watch. As he enters, he sets the dish on the coffee table.

Karkat quickly intervenes, slipping an old magazine under the warm dish. “Well, you’re here.”

“I sure as fuck am,” Dave retorts, plopping down onto the sofa. With great gusto, he throws his arm over its backrest. “I’m guessing Kanaya is out?”

Karkat, having fetched a fork from the kitchen, returns. He lowers himself onto the cushion next to Dave’s. “Off to plan her nuptials with Rose.” At this, his face contorts into a look of annoyance. “She roped me into being what I guess is equal to the best man before she left, though. And I’m such angoddambed helpless romantic that I said yes.”

Dave snickers at the comment, though he stops under the pressure of Karkat’s pointed glare. “Rose asked me to be that, too. The ‘honor guard’, right? What a load of high horseshit, huh?”

“You’re telling me.” Karkat rolls his eyes. His lashes flutter, and Dave can’t help but notice that, when they catch the light, they seem almost pure black. “But, hey, Kanaya’s been my friend for years. She’s let me stay at her place, too, which is one fucking hell of a favor.”

“Favor?” Dave asks. “What, you afraid of the dark or somethin’?”

“More like afraid of myself,” Karkat’s response is backed by a snort of laughter, though it’s obvious that he’s being serious. “I don’t trust myself to live alone. I’d be the most miserable piss-ant.”

Dave, now feeling somewhat uncomfortable, nods. He rubs his hands together and stares at the ceiling, eventually focusing on a wholly unspectacular recessed light. He begins to speak, only to find himself rambling. “Yeah, I get that. Leave me alone too long and I become that hobo you see on the side of the street. The fucker your parents tell you not to give money to, because I’ll spend it on cigarettes and booze. And, I mean, they ain’t wrong about it.”

The commentary is strangely candid. After he’s spoken, Dave finds himself taken aback. He’s never been one to speak about his personal life so openly. Why now?

He considers the company. Karkat might not be the most traditionally welcoming person, but he’s honest and empathetic. In fact, Dave has to admit that he feels safe around Karkat. There’s something about him—his natural, albeit not immediately apparen, warmth, perhaps? It’s an aura, and Dave hates to think of it in such abstract terms, but it’s the best he can come up with. Karkat just has a certain vibe...

“I’d probably be fine alone, but it’s just a gut feeling that I’d end up in the shitter. Who knows? Maybe I’d strike some goddamned gold and kick it back in some posh penthouse. Nah. Not a penthouse. Scratch that. A mansion.” Dave speaks only to hear himself speak. He talks so he doesn’t think.

And it doesn’t take long for Karkat to see that. He shakes his head. “Okay, Strider. That’s enough out of you.” By now, he’s busy eating the pasta. “Did you make this?”

“Of course,” Dave lies. “I am the most highbrow Michelin chef there is.”

“Cool. Tastes exactly like fucking Olive Garden,” Karkat shrugs. He doesn’t fully acknowledge the lie, but it seems that he’s also refraining from pointing out the truth.

So, Dave leaves the topic as it is and moves on. “You think this wedding is part of Rose and Kanaya’s stupid attempts to push us together?”

“Oh, I’d bet my life savings on it,” Karkat laughs. As per usual, it’s a hearty, loud laughter. “Those two are like rabid fangirls.”

“This town ain’t big enough for the two of us, ‘less we’re together.” Dave rolls his eyes. Yet, as he does this, there’s a part of him that wonders if what he says is true.

And, it seems Karkat thinks the same; a flicker of some unknown emotion graces his features, but it disappears quickly. In its place, there’s a look of concurrence. “What a load of steaming, fetid bullshit, right?”

“Totally.” Dave folds his arms across his chest. He slides off his shoes and props his feet up on the table. “Hey, I have an idea.” Even as he says this, a sense of unease builds within him. He knows himself well enough to see where he’s headed, and he’s not sure how Karkat will react. So, before the other party can so much as interject, he continues, “What if we act like we’re falling for their dumb little plan?”

“Are you suggesting we act like our dates haven’t been complete disasters? You’re saying we should fake date?” Karkat asks.

And, despite a dread that runs through his body, Dave nods. If there’s one thing that will drive him to do something indecipherably stupid, it’s the promise of spiting his half-sister. “Yeah. Totally.”

Karkat pauses. He seems to consider this proposal, and his brows furrow thoughtfully. After a few minutes, he, too, nods. “Why the fuck not? Sure.”

“Cool,” Dave says, even though the current scenario is everything but cool. “We’ll start tomorrow.”

“Why tomorrow, Kanaya will be home in a few hours. Why not start this grandiose shit-show now?” Karkat asks. At this point, his emotions are surprisingly inscrutable. Dave can’t get so much as a faint pulse of coherent emotion, and he certainly can’t tell if Karkat is truly joining in for the irony, or if there’s something more to his eagerness.

Nonetheless, Dave agrees. While the thought of what he’s about to do throws his stomach into a series of writhing flips, he finds himself smirking. “Sure. The more I can fuck with Rose, the better.”

A solemn nod serves as Karkat’s response.

Then, a tense silence falls between the two.

* * *

\-- grimAuxiliatrix [GA] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 16:32 --

GA: Rose It Seems We Have A Little Bit Of A Problem

TT: Yes, dear?

GA: Well You See  
GA: Your Brother Is Currently Making Out With My Roommate On My Couch

TT: WHAT THE FUCK.

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering grimAuxiliatrix [GA] at 16:36 --


	28. How Do I Live (Bunny Back in the Box Version)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same deal as usual. Lemme know if you see any typos or autocorrect errors. Thanks for reading!

**KARKAT VANTAS** sits across from Dave Strider. Despite the fact that a wrought iron patio table separates them, he feels as if he can’t escape the trailing cigarette smoke, which emanates from the smoldering cigarette in Dave’s right hand.

It’s not as if he can move, though. He’s a man of his word; he promised Dave he’d fake date him, and he’s going to follow through on that.

This promise is exacerbated by the presence of Rose and Kanaya, whose joint curiosity now has them hanging around him and Dave like frat boys cling to a dumbass idea.

“Look. If this bullshit idea is going to work, you’re going to have to put out that carcinogenic paper roll,” Karkat growls.

Dave, in return, quirks his brow. He shrugs, snuffs the flame out, and pockets the extinguished stub. “Okay. Okay. Cool.”

The hairs on the back of Karkat’s neck bristle. “God, you really are insufferable.”

”INSUFFERABLY AMAZING, RIGHT!?” bellows Dave, making an incredibly ham-fisted show of the commentary. Afterwards, he leans across the table. When he continues, he does so in a low, hoarse whisper, “We’re supposed to be madly in love, dude. You’re like the Romeo to my Juliet, or whatever. Play it up.”

Karkat rolls his eyes. He heaves a long, heavy sigh. Honestly, he does like Dave. Maybe it’s the knowledge that he’s his soulmate that draws him to the blond. Or, maybe, it’s his over-the-top personality. To be frank, Karkat has no clue why he likes Dave. What he does know is that he likes being around him and, if fake dating him gets him more (vaguely) quality time, then so be it.

“Fine.” Karkat continues to act as if he loathes this experience. (If Dave knew he liked it, there’d certainly be some sort of consequence.) “So, why don’t we talk, like normal goddamned people?”

“I can do that.” A cocky grin spreads across Dave’s face, tugging his features into an unusual but pleasant expression. “Uh... Dogs.”

“Dogs?” questions Karkat.

“Yeah,” Dave says, as if the response to his odd statement is something that should be innately known, “Dogs. Woof woof. Bark bark. Yap yap. All that shit. You like ‘em? I like dogs. Birds are better, though. I used to feed the birds back in Texas. I’d get these great big, honkin’ handfuls of birdseed and just chuck ‘em around. Crows would gobble that shit up like the juiciest Thanksgiving turkey.”

A nod and a bewildered grin precede Karkat’s eventual reply. “Yeah. I guess I like dogs,” he shrugs. “Why?”

“I dunno,” Dave admits. “Anyhow, Pidge and Hunk invited me over to watch some sort of dumb space show.”

“Oh! Like a documentary?” Excitement surges within Karkat. He’s always been a fan of documentaries and educational television.

So, naturally, Dave has to pop his bubble. “No, it’s some sort of dumbass kid’s show about robot lions. Hunk says it’s a mecha show.”

“Oh,” Karkat repeats, now with much less enthusiasm. “Let me guess?”

Dave snickers. He pushes up his shades, so that they once again sit squarely on the bridge of his nose. “Obviously, someone as fuckin’ cool and suave as _moi_ can’t just waltz into such a shitty event alone.” As he continues to speak, his accent strengthens; his vowels draw out longer. “I’m reckoning you might want to come with me?”

“That’s awfully fucking bold of you to reckon, you absolute dumbass.” For what feels like the millionth time today, Karkat sighs. “Fine. I might as well keep up this infantile ruse.”

* * *

**DAVE STRIDER** arrives at Pidge’s place exactly ten minutes late. (It’s a lovely rowhouse, and, like its neighbors, it’s  been thoroughly modernized.) He knows he’s exactly ten minutes late because, just before he left the driveway, he has been distracted by some asinine ten-minute-long YouTube video. He’s not wholly bothered by his tardiness, though he _does_ feel a vague sense of guilt.

His arrival is heralded by Pidge. The rosiness of her face seems to indicate that she’s already started the party, as does the slight slurring of her words. “Dude,” she hiccups, “Your boyfriend’s already here. Dude’s hilarious. Said he was sick of your bullshit, so he called an Uber.”

For the briefest of moments, he begins to protest. Then, he remembers that he’s fake-dating Karkat. He keeps his mouth shut on the matter, and, instead, responds with something entirely different. “So, what, just us and Karkat at this shindig?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Pidge responds, drawing out the vowel, “Well, it was _going_ to be that, but Lance heard ‘bout this, so he just _had_ to invite himself. And, duh, that means Keith is coming. Can’t leave Lance unsupervised, right?”

“Cool, cool,” Dave nods sagely. He follows Pidge inside.

Despite the building’s narrow structure, the entire first floor has been turned into a luxurious open concept area, save for a small area behind the kitchen, presumably the bathroom. It’s surprisingly spacious, and the floating staircase along the western wall only adds to the illusion. A huge television is mounted above the fireplace, the motorized window shades are drawn, and it seems the show has already begun.

Due to his tardiness, it doesn’t surprise Dave that everyone else has already arrived. Lance and Keith occupy a loveseat (and the former seems to be mildly intoxicated), while Karkat lays across the sofa. As he already lives with Pidge, Hunk is also (and obviously) in attendance, though he seems busy making the food.

Of course, of all the people here, Dave zeroes in on Karkat. He approaches, a wide smirk spread across his face, and leans his hands against the sofa’s backrest. “Hey there, honey.”

Karkat jumps. He jerks upright, and his forehead slams into Dave’s face.

Dave stumbles back, and his hand naturally flies to his nose. When he withdraws it, he finds the tips colored a sticky bright red. His vision swims, blurring at the edges.

Everything seems to happen at once. Voices speak, but their identities aren’t of any concern.

“Please, not on the sofa. I just shampooed it.”

“Dammit! Hunk just cleaned that sofa!”

“Oh boy! A fight! Yeah!”

“Shut up!”

Then, above the fray, there’s a singular voice that rises above the rest. To Dave’s mind, it seems louder than the rest; in reality, it’s not.

“Hey. Come here.” The voice is surprisingly soft despite its strength. It’s accompanied by a soft touch. Two hands take Dave by the shoulders. One then moves, pressing a soft silk handkerchief to his nose. From there, the hand moves down, grabs his hand, and directs it so that it presses against the newfound nosebleed-blocker.

As Dave’s awareness of his surroundings slowly returns, he realizes who it is. He recognizes the scent of the handkerchief, a spice-backed balance between floral aromas and muskiness. Red eyes meet dark brown. Then, heat rushes to his cheeks. “Oh. Shit. Uh...”

“You’re welcome,” Karkat supplies. For the briefest of moments, a smile seems to cross his face, but it’s gone before Dave can establish any sense of certainty. But, when he speaks, there’s a definite tenderness to his voice. “Where’ve you been, dumbass? I got sick of waiting for you to pick me up and called an Uber.”

“Yeah,” Dave says, unconsciously avoiding the question. He takes a deep breath in; his lungs feel empty, but that sensation is rapidly fading. “I heard. Pidge told me about it.”

“Of fucking course she did,” Karkat says, rolling his eyes. After this, he falls silent.

Dave, too, has little more to say. Instead, he listens to what’s happening around him. He filters out the sounds of the stupid space cat show.

“Damn. I thought we’d get a fight. That was one wicket headbutt,” Lance whines. He stretches his arms above his head, narrowly missing a solid punch to Keith's nose.

Keith, seemingly unaware of how close he was to being the night’s second minor medical ordeal, responds with an audible groan. “Lance, they’re dating. They’re not going to fight each other. I told you they were dating two days ago.”

“Yeah, probably while I was trying to get my necessary beauty sleep. You can’t interrupt my nap to tell me about that shit, Keith. My face isn’t naturally this sexy.”

“Oh my _god_. Lance, I told it to you as we were heading to the meeting. You were listening!” At this point, Keith has covered his face with his hands. “Why are you like this!?”

“It’s part of my natural charm,” Lance responds, waggling his carefully maintained brown brows.

At this point, a new voice interjects. Its source is a clearly irritated Pidge. “Will the idiots in the loveseat please shut up!? We’re trying to watch a show!”

“Sorry.” Both Lance and Keith respond in unison, and both look equally mortified.

The group ceases discussion for some time.

Dave takes a seat beside Karkat. And, as there’s not much else to do, he watches the show. It’s not exactly to his tastes. He has to admit to liking the animation, though.

Eventually, the marathon viewing is interrupted by Hunk. “Dinner’s ready!”

Pidge is the first one up. She bolts for the food faster than a poorly trained dog lunges at a dangling steak. Lance is next, closely followed by Keith. Then, Dave and Karkat.

Aseveryone approaches, Hunk announces the dishes. “I’ve made the crowd favorite, my nacho recipe—”

Here, Lance interrupts. “Technically, that’s my grandma’s recipe. You just modified it.”

Clearing his throat, Hunk continues, louder, now, “Some braised salmon salad, your standard all-American sliders, and some veggie straws.”

By the time he’s finished speaking, most everyone has gathered their food and returned to their seats.

Dave has his plate, which is stacked with sliders an nachos. Now, he waits for Karkat. “You sure you don’t want the crutch?”

“It’s a few yards. My foot’s not rotting off,” Karkat responds. As he speaks, he loads his plate up with salad. “What, are you actually worried?”

“I...” Dave pauses. On one hand, he _is_ concerned. It’s not as if Karkat is a particularly bad guy, it’s just that he doesn’t have any interest in him romantically. (Or, at least... he doesn’t have _much_ interest...) “Yeah. I might be a little fuckin’ concerned. What’re you gonna’ do ‘bout it? Fuckin’ sue me, Phoenix Wright.”

“My god,” Karkat snickers, “You’re a fucking nerd. You might act cool, but you’re the biggest nerd in the dweeb-shit club.” He punctuates his comment with a gentle slap on Dave’s back. Then, he begins to limp back to the sofa.

Dave follows. When the two sit back down, and after Dave has eaten three whole sliders, he speaks up. He keeps his voice low, as he doesn’t feel like being the next Lance and Keith duo of dumbass. “You liking this show?”

“Not quite enough romance for me,” Karkat shrugs.

“Figured. What, you want them to make out every five goddamned seconds?” snickers Dave.

“No, I’d just like to see more intimate relationship development.”

“Fuckin’ nerd.”

“Says the goddamned nerd, with his head so far up his own dweeb-infested intestinal tract he doesn’t even realize he’s a motherfucking nerd.” Since he’s sitting at the end of the sofa, beside the side table, Karkat’s plate is set down beside him. Thus, unlike Dave, both arms are free, and he uses this advantage to put one of these free arms over Dave’s shoulder.

And, though the logical side of Dave feels as if he shouldn’t like this development, he finds himself leaning into it. Of course, that’s only because he’s playing it up. He’s absolutely certain that he’s only going along with his stupid, elaborate joke. There’s no deeper meaning. There are no hidden emotions or repressed feelings. No, he’s just one _hell_ of a pranker.


	29. Faust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is from Phantom of the Paradise

**DAVE STRIDER** has never worn his heart in his sleeve, not even for a second. He’s never been _allowed_ to do so. Emotion, according to his father, was a weakness. The ability to feel was a disease.

Love, too, was forbidden. When Dave expressed interest in dating, during his high school years, his father had told him this.

He was not allowed to date anyone; not girls, and he _most certainly_ was not to date a boy. Only perverted, twisted, evil men dated other men. And, as a Strider, Dave was most definitely none of these things.

But, if that’s the case, then why would his soulmate be another man...?

It is 4:00 AM. In four hours, Dave is obligated to attend a meeting with some fancy-pants bastard about having his photography featured in _Grist_ , one of the foremost urban fashion magazines. After that, he’s due to meet with some other starch-coated moneybag to nail down the specifics of having his nature photos included in the monthly _Birds!_ publication.

He has slept for exactly zero hours, none minutes, and zilch seconds.

Instead, he’s been ruminating. His thoughts have been racing, the topics wide-ranging. But, every time, he returns to one thing: Karkat.

Surely, it’s just friendship. There’s nothing special about it. Surely, every straight man looks at his friend and wonders how soft his hair is. Everyone must, at least once, consider how soft their pal’s lips are, or how his... or, rather, _their_  skin feels beneath a soft touch.

Dave closes his eyes and, in the darkness, he can see Karkat. He traces his jawline; it’s soft, yet defined. He studies his nose, prominent and protruding, yet in proportion to his features.

“God, this is fucking stupid,” Dave finally breathes. He rolls over, out of his bed, and shuffles over to his laptop. He knows it’s a long shot, and that there’s little chance he’ll get any sort of satisfying answer, but he has to at least try...

He opens up his web browser and, with unsteady hands, he types: “How to know if you’re gay”.

* * *

**KARKAT VANTAS** has his day planned out perfectly. Today is going to be nothing but relaxation. He’s got a queue ready, filled with movies he’s been meaning to watch, but hasn’t had the time or energy to, and a wonderful lineup of snacks. In fact, he’s in the middle of settling down to watch _Titanic_ , bowl of chili-pepper-powder-dusted-popcorn in hand, when the doorbell rings.

He ignores it.

It rings again. Then, there’s a voice. It’s muffled enough to the point that Karkat barely understands the words, but he recognizes the cadence. With a pointed, loud sigh, he rises to his feet. He makes his way to the door and, upon throwing it open, is greeted by a horrible-looking Dave Strider.

His hair is a mess, his shades are missing, and his odd red eyes are underscored by dark shadows. Likewise, blond stubble covers his face. “Oh, thank fuckin’ fuck you’re home.”

Karkat, torn between annoyance at his interrupted plans and concern for Dave, can only sputter forth a semblance of a reply. “It’s noon, Strider. It’s... it’s... GODDAMNED NOON! How do you look like you’ve spent a whole day being beaten up by shit-caked hobos when it’s only noon!?”

“Dunno,” Dave’s succinct reply sends the hairs on the back of Karkat’s neck upright, as does what follows, “You wanna’ know how much goddamned sleep I got? None! I got none sleep! Zero hours! I ain’t even sure I got a few minutes of sleep! I just waltzed right on into two of the biggest meetings of my photography career sleep deprived, bumbled my way through ‘em with the grace of a dying giraffe, and drove here. That’s what I’ve been doing.”

“Fuck.” Karkat runs his fingers through his hair. He sets aside his popcorn, leaving it on the nearby console table, and ushers Dave inside.

The blond immediately heads for the sofa, onto which he collapses with the utmost promptness. As he does so, he covers his face with his bright red scarf. “God, I just fuckin’ wrecked myself.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.” As he passes the spot he’d formerly been sitting in, Karkat snatches up the television remote. After the TV is off, he continues to the kitchen, where he begins to make some hot chocolate. “Look, you blubbering sack of odious shit, I’m sure there’s _something_ else out there. You said you liked to churn out music, right? Why not fucking try that? You’re in burnout mode.”

“Nah.” Dave huffs.

Karkat sighs. “You’re a fucking insufferable little prick.”

A low, rumbling groan escapes Dave. With great gusto, he flops over, so that he’s on his stomach. “Why would you care about music, anyhow?”

“I don’t,” admits Karkat. “But I do kind of care about you, as much as I hate to admit it, and...”

“Wait.” The interjection is marked by a pointed urgency. Dave points his index finger upward. “Shush...”

“What?”

“I heard a car door...” Dave’s eyes dart to the window as he sits upright. “Looks like Kanaya.”

Karkat seizes the opportunity. He sits down, beside Dave, and allows him to lean against his side. All the while, he continues the discussion. “Look, you’re obviously in some sort of shit cesspool right now. Find your way out.”

Dave nods. As per usual, he radiates the scent of old vinyl, newspapers, and cigarette smoke. “Okay. Seems fuckin’ fair.”

At this point, the door opens. Kanaya steps in. “Ah. Hello.” She studies the pair on the sofa, seemingly scrutinizing the scene for any flaws. “Hello, Karkat. Dave.”

“Heya,” Karkat smirks.

“‘Sup,” Dave huffs.

Kanaya sighs. Her brows furrow, and her fingers briefly comb through her hair. After a few minutes, she seems to come to some sort of conclusion. She hugs her purse to her chest and shuffles off, disappearing up the stairs.

Once again alone, Dave pulls away from Karkat. He leans against the opposite armrest from his faux boyfriend. “So, smartass, what sort of music do you suggest I make?”

Karkat shrugs. “I don’t know much about music. Do what makes you happy, dumbass.”

Dave responds with a nod. It’s a sage motion, as if he’s suddenly been awakened to the secrets of the universe.

And, in the meantime, Karkat pushes the conversation forward. “You think you absolutely fucked the meetings?”

“Fucked harder than a Bad Dragon,” Dave grumbles, bowing his head. “Probably. At least. Maybe. Not that I had many solid photos for the magazines, anyhow. Guess it ain’t a total loss. We’re not flushing money down the toilet.”

“Hmph.”

Studying Dave, Karkat can tell he’s distraught. There’s an uneasy air about him. He doesn’t hold himself as upright as he usually does; his shoulders are hung low, and his head is down.

“You want some hot cocoa?” Karkat rises from his seat. He limps into the kitchen. His foot is healing well, but he’s still wary of putting any weight on it.

“Sounds solid. Thanks, bro.”

Karkat nods. He prepares two cups of hot chocolate. Then, he returns. As he sits down, he hands a cup to Dave.

The blond eagerly slurps up his drink, seemingly unbothered by its scorching temperature. His cup is empty before Karkat has so much as sipped off the creamy film of his own.

“You want to, maybe...” Karkat feels the heat creeping upwards, to his cheeks. He turns away from Dave, so that he’s no longer making eye contact. “You want to stay here for the night?”

To his surprise, Dave nods eagerly. “God. If I can avoid my half-sister for a while, I’m all in. Every single one of my stupid plastic chips is on the table, and I’m ready to throw down my shitty, worthless poker hand.”

Even with this response, Karkat continues to blush, though it’s not visible on his face. “Okay. I’ll get everything ready for you later.”

“God. Thanks, dude.”

“Don’t fucking mention it.”

* * *

**DAVE STRIDER** lays on the floor of Karkat’s room, cocooned within the bowels of a fluffy sleeping bag. The light is still on, and Karkat is reading a book in bed.

Dave, however, is ready for bed. But his back aches from the hardwood beneath him, and, despite the warmth of the bag, he finds himself shivering. “God, I’m freezin’ my goddamned balls off. I’ve got frostbite on my cherries, Vantas.”

A quiet sigh comes from Karkat’s bed. He rolls over, rustling the sheets, until he’s peering over the edge. “You don’t need to be so fucking vivid with your bullshit imagery, you know. And my bed has space. If you want.”

Dave freezes. He doesn’t really want to sleep in the same bed as Karkat. He doesn’t want to sleep in the same bed as _any_ dude, but it’s cold... “Fine. Move over, and don’t you dare try to cuddle me.”

The book claps shut. “Wouldn’t dream of it, you foul little bastard-nugget.” Karkat scooches over.

And, with a mixture of tentative fear and relief, Dave clambers in beside him. The warmth of Karkat’s body has an instant effect, though the warm spot where he had been lying probably helps.

As Dave enters, Karkat removes his cochlear implant. He slips off the main portion, holding it between his middle and ring fingers, before plucking the behind-the-ear piece out with his index finger and thumb. He sticks it in an old retainer case, pulled from his pocket, and tossed the container onto the bedside table. “Okay, I assume you’re ready to sleep?”

“If it ain’t too much of a bother, dude.” Dave shrugs. Then, he pauses. Realization hits. He holds his right hand up, roughly level with his shoulder. The fingers are curled, forming a fist, and he bends his hand forward at the wrist. He repeats this knocking motion twice. ( _Yes_.)

A flicker of a smile crosses Karkat’s face. He tugs at the long sleeves of his grey plaid pajama top. “Okay. Nice signing, dump-ass.” He stretches his arm up and behind himself, snagging the nearby lamp’s dangling chain. When he pulls, a click accompanies sudden darkness. “Sleep tight.”

Dave opens his mouth to say more, only to realize that Karkat now has his back to him. Since he’s facing away, there’s no chance that he’ll understand anything that’s being said. In all likelihood, he wouldn’t even know Dave was talking to him. So, Dave closes his mouth. He settles down.

For some reason, he finds his arm naturally reaching out. He tries to stop it, but eventually relents, and allows himself to wrap his arm around Karkat’s waist.

From here, with the sounds of Karkat’s quiet snores and the murmuring of nighttime wildlife, Dave’s eyes slide closed. In no time at all, be falls asleep, warmed by Karkat’s body heat and enveloped by a hitherto unknown sense of ease.


	30. INTERLUDE: Luncheon in the Grass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from the Manet painting of the same name. I’m not linking it, since there are boobies and I’m lazy, but you can look it up. This chapter includes a few pesterlogs. I'd say it's about 50/50 regular writing and pesterlogs.

**TAKASHI SHIROGANE** lounges on one of the sofas in the Voltron Labs’ public waiting area. He stares upwards, to and through the dramatically domed skylight. He can see some of the rooftop garden, particularly the carefully manicured plum tree.

He considers the building’s architecture, comprised primarily of jagged lines and harsh angles. It’s a dramatic departure from the rest of the block; in fact, it’s markedly different from any of the buildings on the whole of Main Street.

In the back of his mind, he’s pondering how to celebrate the holidays. Every year, many of the Main Street businesses get together to contribute to both the annual Christmas parade and the accompanying tree. Of the two, the former is the most important, but Shiro has enough on his mind right now. So, instead, he focuses on the smaller task. For the past few years, the Voltron Lab crew (or Team Voltron, as they affectionately refer to themselves) has contributed a group-designed 3D-printed ornament, directly from their own printers.

This year, the voting session concluded that they wanted to make something related to space. The consensus seems to be that they want to show off the possibilities of the future.

Shiro sighs. He stares at the ornament specifications, as listed on the sheet of paper on his clipboard. It must be a maximum of one foot in all dimensions. The design should be neutral enough to not aggravate anyone, so no religious imagery may be used. (And, so, Pidge’s “super cool alien Jesus, but with a sick cape” idea is off the table.) The material must be durable enough to be displayed and preserved for future generations. (So, Hunk’s “giant hamburger” proposal is no longer viable.) It should not include any questionable content. (Lance’s marble statue of himself as a naked god is now invalid.) And, finally, it cannot be a weapon. (Keith’s giant home-forged dagger is out.)

A low growl escapes Shiro. He pulls out his pen and, without really thinking, he begins to absentmindedly click the end. Clearly, the design process has hit a wall. No one seems willing to compromise their idea for the sake of the rules. But, perhaps, an outside influence could provide some fresh life to this dying clusterfuck of a Christmas ornament... (Or, as the city of Skaia calls it, a “Holiday Tree Bauble”.)

* * *

\-- paladinDad [PD] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 11:22 --

PD: Hey so you know about the Skaia Holiday Festival right?

TG: i'm gonna guess it's some sort of nondenominational celebration that's really just a paper-thin excuse for a christmas party  
TG: but being real i got no fuckin clue what it is

PD: Oh.  
PD: Well you're pretty much right.  
PD: It's a yearly celebration that the town always has. They've always done it since I was a kid. Every year we have a Holiday Tree and it's decorated with ornaments designed by many of the Main Street businesses.  
PD: Voltron Labs have contributed an ornament since 1992 which means they've made one every year since they were founded!

TG: yawn

PD: Rude.  
PD: Sometimes companies and businesses can't get their teams to work together for five minutes to make a coherent contribution. It looks like my gang of lovely little idiots is having this issue this year. In those cases businesses sometimes hire an artist to design them an ornament. I've heard from Rose that you like to do art and I was wondering if you'd be willing to whip us up a design idea. We might modify it slightly but all the credit will be given to you in the annual holiday pamphlet.

TG: i take back the yawn  
TG: any sort of payment plan here

PD: I've set aside $150 for the artist.  
PD: That's assuming the artist agrees. And happens to be you.

TG: okay you've got my goddamned attention  
TG: i'm stuck tighter than a properly applied command strip on a college dorm room wall  
TG: so what are the deets

PD: ...

TG: oh my god you're an old fart  
TG: what do i need to do

PD: Well since you've agreed I'll forward you a copy of the committee guidelines. The team has at least gotten together enough for a theme so we have that much. We're thinking of making an ornament that shows off “the possibilities of tomorrow” if that makes sense. Everyone thought it was a good theme seeing as we're a technological company. It'll be better than _last year's_ train wreck theme. “Robots that will prevent the collapse of mankind” wasn't a popular theme.

TG: jesus fuck you can do it to you can make the text all squiggly  
TG: what the fuck sort of magic are y'all pulling in pesterchum  
TG: what've y'all done to my sweet sweet chat client

PD: Italics? Oh!  
PD: I bet one of the others pulled this trick on you too! Ha ha! Always the little pranksters. Voltron Labs acquired the Pesterchum a while ago and now maintains both the servers and software needed. That means we have access to some of the cool under-the-hood stuff that happens with the client like chat formatting.  
PD: So I can do stuff like make my text the same color as yours or a different color altogether! Just fun crap like that.

TG: you and i seem to have a very very different definition of fun  
TG: see you think fun is doing wacky techno bullshit and maybe messing with a few peep's heads in the process and that is for fuckin' sure what's happening here because my brain is fried better than a michelin star chef's eggs  
TG: *my* definition of fun is pulling some low-key pranks and chilling out in my room taking some photos and maybe dishing out some sick beats  
TG: that crazy ass shit you're doing is not fun

PD: Okay. Fair. I will stop using italics.  
PD: I can't promise anyone else on the crew won't use them though. I'd keep an eye out for Pidge and Lance.

TG: thanks for the heads up  
TG: now if you'll excuse me i have a date to go put stupid wedding invitations in shitty little envelopes and seal them with my tongue thus getting that disgusting as fuck glue taste all in my mouth for the next ten years

PD: ...  
PD: Okay... Have fun I guess?

TG: i won't

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering paladinDad [PD] at 11:46 --

* * *

\-- installWizard opened memo on board DAVE HATES ITALICS PASS IT ON! --

IW: _hey dunkass guess what i can do!_

\-- loverBoy [LB] responded to memo at 11:59 --

LB: _oh boy is this gonna annoy shades douche_  
LB: _this is great_

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] responded to memo at 12:05 --

TG: yo  
TG: i don't know y'all that well  
TG: but i guess i'm here now and i just gotta shout  
TG: that all these italics are fucked up as hell  
TG: so fuck this shit i'm out

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] left the memo! --  
\-- mulletLover [ML] responded to memo at 12:12 --

ML: Oh my god you all. Can't we just be normal for five fucking minutes!?

LB: ...

ML: And where's Hunk!?

IW: first of all hunk is napping in the break room and secondly no we cannot.

LB: i second the nope

ML: Fuck.

LB: you said the f word _twice_  
LB: i'm telling dad

ML: FUCK.

\-- mulletLover [ML] has left the memo!

IW: fucking classic lance.

LB: thank you i try

* * *

**DAVE STRIDER** , aside from being a photographer and musician, also possesses great skill with a pen. That’s to say he’s an artist, and, from what he knows, he always has been. When he wasn’t churning out sick beats or snapping choice photos, he was doodling. He’s never really considered himself a master; he’s no Da Vinci.

Nevertheless, considering the attention designing a Holiday Bauble for the Skaia festival tree would bring, he can’t really refuse such a challenge.

Thus, he sits before a disused drafting table, taken from his father’s home. An empty page is spread before him, and a sense of excitement—a bold, adventurous thrill—that he’s long since forgotten courses through his body.

He closes his eyes, considers the theme and guidelines he’s been given, and begins to work.

* * *

**PIDGE GUNDERSON** finds herself in the middle of Skaia’s main park. The sky is bright, clear blue, the sun shines brightly, and it’s _still_ cold as fuck. Even bundled within the plush golden-yellow parka she’d stolen from Hunk on the way out, she finds it chilly.

“You’re one of Kanaya’s friends, are you not?” a familiar voice grabs Pidge’s attention. She turns and finds herself staring at a similarly recognizable face.

The woman before her has skin that’s not quite pale, but nowhere near tan. Freckles dot the bridge of her nose and spread across her cheekbones. Her black lipstick highlights her hairband, though her bangs still hang in her face. “Pidge,” she says, her voice refined yet commanding, “Your name is Pidge, correct?”

“Yeah.” Pidge nods. Then, she admits the hard truth, “And... who’re you?”

A look of bemusement crosses the woman’s face. “I’m Rose. Kanaya’s fiancée.” She laughs. “I was actually coming to drop off some wedding invitations to the Voltron Lab building, but, seeing as I’ve now been fortunate enough to cross paths with you...”

“You want to know if I’d be willing to take the invitations back to work with me?” Pidge supplies.

“Observant,” Rose counters, her face graced by a mysterious smile. “Would you mind?”

“No problems here,” Pidge shrugs. She reaches out and takes the stack of pastel pink envelopes. A dark green ribbon binds the five together. “When is it?”

“Well, the holidays have priority at the moment, so we don’t want to interfere with those. We’ve decided to hold the wedding the first weekend after New Year’s. A room at the local art museum has been reserved for the reception.”

“Sounds pretty neat,” Pidge says. Some of this is a lie; she’s never been a fan of art museums. But, as long as food is supplied, she’ll attend. “Anyone picked out to do the official stuff?”

“Karkat is actually certifies to officiate weddings, through various odd circumstances. So, yes!” Here, the enigmatic smile turns genuine. Excitement radiates from Rose. “I hope to see you there!”

“Yeah, same,” Pidge lies again. Honestly, she could care less, but the reception will probably be fun. “See you later?”

Rose nods. “I believe so.” She waves and turns away, walking towards the parking lot of a nearby grocery store.

And Pidge, now an unwitting Hermes, returns to her workplace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider the Voltron bits a preview of a Klance companion fic in the same universe that I’m tossing around in my head and might just write.


	31. In My Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, it's a song from les miserablés. [**listen to it here**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T00iANr8gF8) and, as always, thanks for reading! comments and feedback are always appreciated.

**DAVE STRIDER** leans against a rust-covered lamppost. The green paint on its surface has peeled, allowing the aforementioned rust to thrive. Despite the fact that it isn’t even noon, the light flickers. Dave doesn’t know why, nor does he really care. What he’s more concerned about is the empty sketchbook in his hands.

He has two days to get his design to Shiro, and he’s yet to even come up with the most basic sketch. The page he’d placed on the drafting table remains there, and it’s just as blank at the bound pages in his hands.

“Trying to draw something?” a familiar voice startles Dave. It comes from behind.

Instinct drives Dave to turn quickly. He prepares himself, clenching his free hand into a tight fist, only to calm upon seeing the identity of the speaker. His shoulders relax. “Oh. Vantas. 'Sup?”

“You're still using my last name to address me, your _boyfriend_!?” Karkat smirks. By this point, he's using the crutch less. He remains unsteady on his feet, though, and he shifts his weight regularly. “Look, I heard through the metaphorical, wilting grapevine that Shiro and the crew have commandeered your services for the dumbass annual Christmas ceremony.”

“The Holiday Parade?” Dave asks.

Karkat rolls his eyes. “You and I both know exactly what it means. It's a goddamned Christmas celebration, and no one is really fooled by that _'holiday'_ crap.” He emphasizes his words with air quotes. “Before you ask, Rose told me. She also told me to come find you, because it's cold as fuck.”

Now that he thinks about it, Dave _is_ cold. He tucks his sketchbook under his arm and rubs his hands together. Even though they're safely tucked inside a pair of warm winter gloves, they're still cold. He's from Texas, after all; he's used to the heat. Still, he has to save face. “What 'bout it?”

“She told me to tell you to get inside if you were outside.” At this point, Karkat buries his hands in his pockets. He seems unaffected by the weather, though that's likely because he's used to it. Even so, he wears his usual grey knit cap, pulled down so as to cover his implant, but also positioned to expose his good ear. “I have a coupon in my wallet for Slick's. I don't fucking know. She said you like their foul, muculent sludge patties.”

“Okay, first of all, Slick's makes the best burgers.” Dave bristles at the very suggestion of the fact of the matter being otherwise. “Secondly, I don't need a fuckin' babysitter, especially not my fake boyfriend. Third, _you're_ the one who told me to branch out. So suck them lemons.”

“M'kay,” Karkat counters, smirking. He holds up the coupon, revealing it to be a buy-one-get-one deal, and pinches either side. “I guess I'll just rip this up and go home, then...”

“Wait!” Dave relents. He flips his sketchbook closed, sticks it into his bag, and runs his fingers through his hair. “Fine. I'll come eat with you.”

* * *

**ROSE LALONDE** lays in her fiancée's bed, facing up. Her eyes are locked upon the slowly rotating ceiling fan, and her hands absentmindedly continue to knit an already sizable red sweater.

“Kan,” she speaks up.

Kanaya turns around, interrupting her own work on a new dress design. “Yes? Is something bothering you?”

“Yeah. It's Karkat and Dave...”

“And we agreed to leave it be. They seem perfectly fine, don't they?”

Rose shrugs. “Yes, but I cannot help myself. It baffles me. How have they gone from being at each other's throats to amorous lovers? It's... It makes no sense!” She sets her kitting aside, draping the unfinished work over the side of the bed. “There must be something more to this.”

“Perhaps there is,” hums Kanaya. “For now, I vote we simply enjoy the show.”

* * *

**KARKAT VANTAS** abstains from ordering a burger. He might not fall in line with all of his family's traditional beliefs, but the consumption of beef remains a habit. Instead, he selected a nice basket of chicken fingers. They arrived drenched in oil, with much of the breading already flaking off. Still, to appease Dave, he acts as if they're good. “They drawing is supposed to be something futuristic, right? The marvels of technology, or some sort of cliché turdfuck like that?”

“Yeah,” Dave huffs. It's obvious that he's been thinking about this idea for a while. When glimpses are available, Karkat can see that dark shadows hang beneath his eyes. “I'm not sure what to do with it, and all these goddamned restrictions are like tying a horse to fifteen poles and telling it to run.”

Karkat nods, acting as if he understands Dave's obtuse simile. He opens his mouth to speak, only to hear a piercing beep in his ear. The meaning of this noise is clear, and he's grown accustomed to hearing it. The batteries in his implant are running low. Thus, he changes course. “Strider, you have a spare piece of paper and a pen I can use, right?”

Though clearly perplexed, Dave nods. “Yeah.” One hand rips out a page of the sketchbook, while the other pulls a pen from his bag. To make the affair sufficiently Strider-esque, he adds a flair; he tosses the pen, so that it spins in the air, and catches it before handing it over. “What's up? You have an idea? I ain't about to turn down any help. Hit me up with some dope ideas, Picasso. Actually... Picasso was, as I've heard, a big 'ole fuckin' dumbass bastard. I mean—” At this point, sound abruptly stops, yet Dave continues speaking.

Karkat, meanwhile, snarls. He pulls the page closer, clicks the pen he's been given, and scribbles down what he wants to say. He could say it aloud. He _would_ say it aloud, but speaking without aural feedback has never been his strong point. _“The implant's dead. I can't hear you.”_ With this written, he slides the page to Dave.

True to form, the blond ignores the note. He continues babbling, stopping only after Karkat jabs a pointed finger at it. Then, his eyes widen. He looks up, and his mouth forms an 'O'. He, too, produces a pen. _“You can't hear anything?”_

A growl escapes Karkat. He shakes his head. His right hand rises, until it's level with his shoulder. Two fingers—the ring and little—are curled into a fist, while the thumb, forefinger, and middle finger are extended. He pinches them together in a smooth motion, which mirrors the action one might perform when closing the mouth of a shadow puppet. As he does this, unable to contain his annoyance, he responds aloud, “If I _could_ hear anything, do you think I'd fucking notify you about this development, you dense piss-sponge!?”

Dave jumps. His usual stoic facade briefly drops, revealing embarrassment. When he writes his reply, he does so hurriedly. _“You're being real loud, and I'm honestly not sure of all you just said.”_ He bites his lip as he slides the page back to Karkat. Even through the shades, Karkat can feel his stare.

In fact, Karkat can feel many stares. He's fairly certain everyone in the building is staring at him. Now, however, he's too emotional to truly care. Again, he speaks, though he makes an effort to try and lower his voice. “I can't hear you,” he repeats, slower, now. “If I could, I wouldn't tell you I couldn't, now, would I? Use your fucking brain.”

In return, Dave frowns. With hesitancy, he presses his right hand to his chest. His fingers form a fist, and the palm faces inward. Keeping his hand to his chest, he draws a few clockwise circles. _Sorry._ His left hand, meanwhile, scribbles out a further reply, _“Was that right?”_

The bubbling surge of irritation within Karkat dissipates immediately. His shoulders relax, his jaw goes slack, and his cheeks burn. “I...” he speaks aloud, only to fall silent. He writes his reply, instead. _“You know sign language?”_

Dave shakes his head. _“No. I can't hold a conversation, but I've been learning some. I learned a little after we started working together.”_

 _“Why would you?”_ Even as he writes the words out, Karkat can barely believe them. _“No one does. I pass for someone with regular hearing all the fucking time. No one bothers to learn it. No one feels like they need to use it. Only Kanaya knows it...”_ His brows furrow. Slowly, he looks to the man across the table for answers, and he feels a lump rising in his throat.

Dave, however, remains as stoic as always. _“I thought it'd be an easier way to get the message across during shoots. After that, we started trying to to date, and we obviously made a massive fuckin cluster out of it. Then, we started fake-dating, so I figured I might as well get back to learning it.”_ His face is turned towards his conversational partner, and he only expresses emotion, in the form of a slight, lopsided smile, once Karkat has finished reading.

As Karkat beats back the lump in his throat, he smirks. His right hand forms a thumbs-up gesture, while his left makes a fist. With great bravado, he jams the downward-facing thumb into the top of his fist, so that it slides into the opening between the crook of his thumb and his index finger. _Shit._ He doesn't offer the translation aloud or in writing, though.

By the immediate raising of Dave's brow, it's obvious he's interested. _“What the hell does that mean?”_

 _“I'll tell you once you learn more basics.”_ Even before he's finished writing this message, Karkat finds himself snickering. _“While we're stuck in this putrid grease trap hell, why don't I teach you some baby sign language. Even a hollow-skulled bastard like you can grasp the sort of inane crap I'll be showing you.”_

There's no pause, no obvious signs of thought. Dave's reply is immediate. He nods and offers a surprisingly enthusiastic thumbs-up. He speaks, only to realize his mistake and write out his words, _“What else is there to do? Kanaya sure as hell isn't asking for many photos lately, and I have no goddamned idea what this dumbass ornament'll look like. Go for it.”_

Karkat nods. For the first time in a long while, excitement takes hold of him. A wide smile spreads across his face, in spite of his best efforts to suppress it, and he cracks his knuckles in preparation. Maybe he _is_ just a little bit in love with his stupid, pompous tool of a soulmate. Maybe...


	32. The Phantom Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNINGS:** Canon-typical violence. This chapter revolves around Dave's past, so this is also where the "past child abuse" tag gets real. Basically, Dave's entire section and the following Pesterlog, if you want to skip it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **listen to the song here** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WEYUrfPhUA4), it's from MGSV. FUCKING BONUS CHAPTER BECAUSE I BINGED ON WRITING TODAY!!!

_**DAVE STRIDER** finds himself in the shadow of an eerily familiar figure._

_Tall, lean, muscular, and clad in black slacks and a white polo shirt, the man silently raises his hand. In this hand, he holds a sword, and the edge of this blade presses against Dave’s chin._

_Blood. Dave can’t see it, but he feels it. It warm, thick, and it inches its way down his neck. It mats his hair together and stains his palms._ _Warm liquid trickles down his leg. Dave feels it, and he knows what it is before the man speaks._

_“Wet yourself again, you pussy-ass pansy?” The man raises the sword, allowing the blade to reflect the scorching Texan sun, then, he brings it down._

_Dave closes his eyes and prepares for impact. Then..._

 

Dave Strider wakes from his sleep. His chest heaves as he struggles for air. When he brings his hands to his face, he finds that it's wet; he's been sweating. For several minutes, he remains still. His knees are hugged to his chest and his face is buried in his hands. Eventually, he uncurls. After some more recovery, he stumbles to his feet. Slowly, he approaches his computer...

* * *

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 01:12 --

TG: hey uh are you awake or am i shouting my thoughts into the endless abyss and waiting for a response that ain't coming any time soon  
TG: i get it if you ain't awake yet it's damn early and i really hope i don't wake you up because honestly i'd feel pretty fuckin bad if i did because this really isn't that big of a deal i can probably handle this perfectly fine on my own but if you're there that would be dandy

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] is an idle chum! --

TG: yeah it figures i guess i'll just leave you to do your sleepin thing  
TG: sleep well loser

TG: okay you know what i fuckin lied  
TG: i'm so fuckin tired i haven't slept well since only the most sadistic of gods knows when because whenever the hell i do i have goddamned nightmares like not your average oh sorry little billy there ain't any monsters under your bed type dreams i mean like oh my god relive your childhood traumas that you had no clue were traumas until recently when you emerged from the goddamned cave of a room you were locked in for your entire life  
TG: like i know i'm supposed to be cool and stoic and i'm the logical side of this dumbass little fauxlationship but i  
TG: i'm tired

TG: ...  
TG: i'm sorry you really didn't need to hear about it and i mean we ain't even dating *for real* so why does it fuckin matter to you i bet you have bigger problems to deal with you're probably out there wrangling goddamned bulls and i'm here with my shitty little worm and i don't have a fuckin clue how to wrangle a worm i can't even wrangle shit that's normal sized

CG: Oh my god do you *ever* just shut the fuck up!?  
CG: You're nervous.

TG: how did you ever fuckin guess

CG: Well, aside from the glaringly obvious text that's assaulting my poor eyes, you're rambling. You never ramble like that unless you're anxious, nervous, or upset. Fucking pick one.

TG: d all of the above

CG: Really, though, I'm kind of concerned. I mean, I'm *really* fucking concerned. You're obviously not okay. What can I do to help?

TG: nothing it's really no big deal i'm just some dumbass kid from some shitty penthouse in houston  
TG: i ain't anything special and i sure as hell shouldn't be here  
TG: in skaia  
TG: surrounded by all these people who think i'm some sort of cool mysterious dude with a history of being a dashing rapscallion

CG: Dave, I can fucking assure you that not a singular soul thinks any of those things. You are quite possibly the most stupendous of nerds, and *everyone* knows that. It's not exactly a brain-fucking fact. Everyone. Knows. You're. A. Nerd.

TG: ouch  
TG: okay so maybe not but

CG: And not to interrupt.  
CG: But to interrupt.  
CG: What do you mean you don't *deserve* to be here? You're not “cool” in the traditional sense of the word, but you're cool. I mean, if I'm being perfectly goddamned honest with you, I have to grudgingly admit that I think you're...  
CG: Fuck. I can't do this via goddamned Pesterchum.

TG: ha  
TG: well what're you gonna fuckin do drive all the way down here

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] is an idle chum! --

TG: oh my god  
TG: sweet jesus' tits  
TG: dude where the fuck are you  
TG: what the literal fuck

* * *

**KARKAT VANTAS** , having just requested that the Uber he'd called for drop him off a block from Dave's home, stumbles down the street. His vision swims, and the lack of any meaningful noise only serves to further disorient him. Sure, he has his implant on, but it's not going to pick up the sounds of the quiet of the night. Right now, all he really hears is the static of passing cars. His foot catches on an uneven sidewalk tile, and he yelps. “FUCK!” As he falls, he catches himself on a nearby lamppost. After a few seconds of recovery, he carefully rights himself.

“What the literal fuck?” Karkat knows the voice. When he looks up, he's not surprised to see Dave.

The blond's shades are off, his eyes are drowsy, and he shivers against the gusts of freezing winter wind. As far as clothes go, he has on little more than his pajamas and a red bath robe. “How the hell did you even get here?”

“I took a goddamned Uber,” Karkat quips.

Dave groans. He approaches, grabs Karkat's hand, and drags him back to Rose's modest suburban home. Once inside, he continues upstairs, stopping only once both he and Karkat are in his room, and the door is closed. “What the actual _fuck_ do you think you're doing!?”

“Look,” snaps Karkat, his voice a hoarse whisper, “You obviously aren't in the best shape right now. I mean, sure, maybe you are physically, I don't fucking know. But it seemed like leaving you alone was the worst idea possible, so I came here. I'm going to stay here until I feel you can be trusted, like a pissed off babysitter.”

A slow nod. The look on Dave's face can only be described as dazed, and his voice is similarly out of touch with the situation. As per usual, his voice remains its usual monotone. “Okay. I guess that's fuckin' fair. Tit for tat I guess. But what the fuck were you going on about on Pesterchum? You dropped some sort of juicy intro to a fuckin' pants-shitting revelation, then you left it hanging. What gives?”

Despite his former confidence, Karkat feels his heart drop. His stomach churns, and he wrings his hands together. “I...” he begins. He stops. A scowl crosses his face, and he drops his gaze to the ground. With far less gumption than he'd initially intended, he points toward himself. This smoothly transitions to a hugging action, in which he pulls his arms—hands forming inward-facing fists, forearms crossed—to his chest. Then, he points to Dave.

In return, there's a pained silence. Dave's brows furrow, first; then, they rise. His cheeks burn a brilliant pink and he, too, refuses to initiate eye contact. “I... I-I mean... I like you, too, Vantas, but... It...” The usual fluidity of his voice, the way he seems to flawlessly ramble without a hitch, is gone. “You're... I... Fuck. _Fuck._ ” he spits out the word with palpable vitriol. His fingers tangle themselves in his hair, and he groans. He turns, kicks the wall hard enough to crack the baseboard, and curses again. “FUCK! God! I'm so goddamned...” Then, there's a snap. Dave looks up and, when he locks eyes with Karkat, it's like a mirror to the past.

In Dave's eyes, Karkat sees history repeating itself. He can see a world that, while familiar and comforting, doesn't quite feel right. He sees a bubbling, frothing, tumultuous inner turmoil. The people you think you know, and the ones you think would love you unconditionally fall away. In Dave's eyes, Karkat sees loneliness, and his instincts drive him. He approaches, wraps his arms around Dave and feels the man's body seem to cave in on itself. He sighs, and allows Dave to cry on his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy turning point chapter [jazz hands]


	33. Something Entirely New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song is from steven universe and [**you can listen to it here**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KEJvCQ7QZEo)!

**KARKAT VANTAS** wakes in an unfamiliar home, surrounded by unfamiliar smells, and with an absolutely, irrevocably dead implant battery. The lights in the room are out, the curtains are tightly drawn, and he can barely see his own hand in front of his face. Still, he feels the need to get out. He has to at least extricate himself from Dave’s room before he wakes up, or else he’ll never live it down.

He rolls over, only to realize, far too late, that he’s actually on top of a guest bed. He slams into the floor, hitting his head on the nearby bedside table on the way down. By the time he’s staggered to his feet, he can feel his wounds. They’re superficial, but damn do they hurt. Aside from a myriad of new bruises, the blood trickling down the side of his face also alerts him to a fresh new head wound.

He gropes about in the dark and, eventually, a light switch is located. Turning it on, he finds a mirror on the wall. By now, he’s used to minor scrapes and bumps. Bandages are always stuffed inside his pockets, and today is no exception; his fresh head wound is swiftly and sterilely covered.

At this point, he turns to leave, only to be suddenly faced with a confused-looking Dave Strider. “JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!” Karkat exclaims.

Dave follows suit. Though Karkat can’t hear him, he can read his lips well enough. “MOTHERFUCKER!”

With such pleasantries exchanged, the awkwardness begins.

Dave speaks, and he does so for quite some time. Eventually, however, he realizes he’s been wasting his breath. He blushes.

“Would you like for me to go home tonight?” Karkat asks this aloud. Right now, he’s trying to figure out what to do.

And, to his surprise, Dave responds with a shake of his head.

“Then can you call Kanaya? My inplant’s dead and I need my phone charger.” Here, he pauses. He folds his arms across his chest and sighs. “Might as well get her to bring my alert button over, just in case...”

Dave responds with what appears to be laughter. He opens up his phone and types out a message, which he then sends to Karkat: _“What like a fucking LifeAlert for old people?”_

In return, Karkat offers a low growl. “You’ll feel pretty damned bad if I fall down your stairs and die there while you get groceries.” At this point, he’s keenly aware of the fact that he likely sounds odd, but it’s too early in the morning to care. “Look, it’s all fun and fucking games for you, Strider, but I’ve been stuck alone and on the ground for hours before. It sucks, and I wouldn’t wish it on the most hate-worthy bastard on this pitiful planet.”

Dave’s smile fades. He shifts awkwardly on his feet. “Oh.” After this, he motions at his phone and departs, presumably to call Kanaya.

* * *

**DAVE STRIDER** is all too cognizant of the fact that he fucked up this morning. He knows the comment he made was rude, and the response he got sure as hell demonstrated why. But, now, as he sits across the table from his fake boyfriend, he can _see_ a million more reasons why he shouldn’t have opened his stupid mouth. (And he is still just a _fake_ boyfriend, right?)

Thinking back, Dave can’t remember a single time he’d seen Karkat in short sleeves. Likewise, he’s never seen him without a scarf or a high-collared shirt. And, now, he’s across the dining room table, clad in little more than black boxer shorts and a sleeveless white undershirt.

Now, Dave can see something he’s fairly certain Karkat never meant for him to see. The man’s body is riddled with scars. Patches of puckered, almost burnt-looking skin run up and down his arms, with a particularly large chunk covering most of his right forearm. Surgical incisions of the past are scattered over his body. His left calf is thinner than his right, and it seems that a modest chunk was once hastily cut away.

“You’re staring, dumbass,” Karkat’s voice interrupts Dave’s thoughts. Despite the situation, the voice speaking is neither upset nor embarrassed. Rather, it’s calm and matter-of-fact. As he continues, he blissfully munches away at the helping of fresh cinnamon bread Kanaya brought with her. “Probably weren’t expecting this fucking Jackson Pollock bullshit when you signed up to fake date me, were you?”

Dave shakes his head. Something inside of him drives him to protest the implications of Karkat’s commentary. “No, it’s fine. It adds character.” At least, that’s what Bro would say when Dave was saddled with another scarring wound.

“You don’t have to act like it’s not some of the most grotesque shit you’ve ever seen, you fucking obtuse ass-whiffer.” Karkat snickers. As per usual, it’s a harsh, throaty sound, but it still manages to send a shiver down Dave’s spine. “I was probably marked as a fucking shit sponge the minute I was born. I got my entire fucking life upended by some sort of bullshit serious disease only to get kicked out of my own house when I was thirteen.”

“What?” Dave feels his heart skip a beat. His heart drops. For all the shit he gives Karkat, he has to admit that he’s a good guy. If you’re on his good side, Karkat would give you the clothes off his back without batting an eye, so why would anyone...?

As it turns out, the question didn’t need to be posed. Karkat answers it himself, unprompted. “Mom died not long after I was born, and Dad wasn’t that keen on me liking other men. He gave me enough money for one pack of cochlear implant batteries, the clothes I had in my room, and told me to get out.” The words are spoken with an unbridled disdain, as if the very notion of such an action is worth spitting from his mouth like venom. (And it is.) “I lived on my own, mostly ducking in and out of seedy piss-poor shelters for a few years before Kanaya’s company really took off. She bought her place after that and let me live here, free of charge.”

Dave nods. Realization slowly creeps into his mind. He’s not so different from Karkat. Both outcasts, both deemed freaks... “Sounds like a real bastard.”

“Pretty much.” Karkat shrugs. He finishes the last of his bread before continuing, “Kanaya said Rose was at her place by the time we were both awake. So...”

“I’m sorry,” Dave blurts. “I... I feel like I’ve been yanking your chain. This is one fuckin’ bullshit circlejerk, and I’ve gotta end it. I... You’re nice, Karkat, you really are. I’d trust you with my fuckin’ life, but... I... I shouldn’t be dating you.”

The shock of the statement is obvious on Karkat’s face. “You...”

“I’m a stupid little bastard. My own dad didn’t even want me. ‘Hey, look at Old Man Strider! Let’s all throw rocks at him!’ That’s probably my fate, and I am 100% accepting of it. I...”

Karkat interjects. “But do you want to date me, to be completely fucking forward?”

“Yes.” The word has left Dave’s mouth before he event realizes what he’s agreeing to. It’s a subconscious decision, and he can’t exactly say that he regrets it, even as he stammers onward, “I-I... Ugh. Fuck. I really do like you. You’re a damned fine guy, like some sort of bullshit Wild West hero. It’s almost fuckin’ crazy how goddamned nice you are. Like... God. Fuck. I...”

“So, then, I guess we start all this shit over again?” Karkat quirks his brow. “I’m Karkat Vantas, some deadbeat loser mooching off of my best friend’s riches. And you are?” As he speaks, Karkat extends his hand.

Dave smirks. “Dave Strider, dumbass photographer and aspiring artist.” He reaches out and accepts Karkat’s handshake.

* * *

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 18:11 --

TT: Hello, dearest half-brother of mine, I have important news to relay to you. I apologize sincerely for not sending this message earlier, and I'm sure I've completely and irrevocably destroyed your thrilling plans for the night, but I was unable to do so until now.

TG: lemme guess you're too busy slammin your girlfriend to come home huh?  
TG: i figured as much when you weren't home an hour ago you know at five like you fuckin said you'd be so it ain't a big deal  
TG: have fun with kanaya i guess

TT: Thank you for your understanding, David. I appreciate it.  
TT: I had a further message to relay, though, and it's that I am fully aware that Karkat is at my house. I am fully supportive of this, and do not wish to meddle with your personal affairs, but Kanaya has told me to relay a few important things to you.

TG: if they're so important why ain't she telling me herself

TT: She's a bit... busy. She wanted to let you know too make sure any necessary passageways, particularly the paths to the exit, bedrooms, and bathrooms, are all sufficiently lit. Specifically, they must be "Really And Honestly Quite Bright" to be considered sufficient. She recommends keeping his first aid kit nearby, preferably by the bathroom, and to be aware that he's easily disoriented at night.

TG: holy shit you sound like a goddamned mom right now karkat is a grown ass adult he can take care of himself i ain't his babysitter

TT: Perhaps not, butlnlklw  
TT: If Something Happens To Karkat While He Is In Your Company I Will Personally Hunt You Down And Destroy You Don't You Dare Doubt That

TG: holy shit

TT: Sorry about that. Kanaya wanted to say something, as you can see.

TG: okay well tell her i'm honestly fuckin terrified of her and i'm surer than i'm sure of my own goddamn name that she could easily tear me to shreds with her bare hands so i'll be sure to keep a fatherly eye on karkat

TT: Wonderful! Oh, Kanaya wants to say one more thing.  
TT: Don't You Dare Do Anything Bad To Him Dave Because I Will Find You And You Will Pay  
TT: Also I Hope You Have A Wonderful Night Together Doing Whatever It Is You Two Do When You Happen To Be Together

TG: okay

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 18:49 --

* * *

\-- carcinoGeneticist ?[CG] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 19:02 --

TG: what're you pestering me for when you're right across the fuckin room from me you nerd  
TG: what is your ear dead again

CG: ...  
CG: ...  
CG: It's called a cochlear implant, first of all, you uneducated shit-whiffer. Secondly, no. It's low on battery, but it still has a good amount left. I just wanted to give it a break. Listening to people with it is already tiring enough, so it's a fucking nightmare when all I have to listen to is the inane, logically dubious ramblings of a crazed dumbass, like you. We all clear here?

TG: what so your ear is tired sounds fuckin strange to me  
TG: you just don't want to listen to my beautiful voice

CG: Dave, you goddamned twit, I don't think you understand how this *works*. It's not like I put this on and suddenly hear crystal clear. It's more like walking into a place with slightly better signal, and suddenly your phone call goes from garbled robotic orgy noises to slightly less garbled but still completed and utterly bullshit electronic groans. It's hard work to understand what people say most of the time, and even harder when the blond bastard saying shit to me does nothing but mutter in an accent as thick as his own skull.

TG: oh

CG: Yeah.

TG: well now i feel like a jackass way to go strider just fuck everything up so spectacularly awfully like you always do huh

CG: No. I didn't say it for that reason. I said it because we're supposed to be dating, and I'm staying overnight at your house. If we're going to interact this fucking much, I might as well inform you of any problems we might have in the communications department.

TG: okay that fair  
TG: fairer than the fairest damsel in the whitest fantasy novel

CG: ...

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 19:15 --


	34. Across the Universe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it's a beatles song but the version i'm thinking of is [**this one**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vVjA01tmtEs) from the movie of the same name ( _across the universe_ ) as usual, thanks for reading and comments and feedback and kudos are always welcome! you can always check out more of my bullshit on [**my blog**](godtiermeme.tumblr.com). this is i guess a sort of filler chapter, at least partially, that highlights karkat's past and briefly touches on how it intersects with kanaya's. ~~the voltron kids aren't dead, they just haven't been relevant. they'll be back soon.~~

**KARKAT VANTAS** lays in bed. His back is warmed by a certain Dave Strider, who, despite his declarations otherwise, is nestled snugly against it. His head is pressed against the cold bedroom wall and, in the silence and darkness of night, his mind races. For some reason, he considers where he's been, and how, exactly, he ended up here. _How,_ he finds himself wondering, _has life become this?_

From the moment he could form his own coherent, independent thoughts, Karkat _knew_ he wanted to find his soulmate. He'd seen it in movies and read about it in books. He knew of the sensations simply crossing paths with your soulmate for the first time would bring about—your heart raced, your pupils dilated, and your stomach would feel as if it had been filled with helium. He _wanted_ that experience, but, in the small town he grew up in, he knew that wasn't likely. He'd spent years searching the whole town, passing everyone he could, before concluding his soulmate was elsewhere. At around the same time, he had realized something that shook him to the core: there was a very good possibility that he'd _never_ meet his soulmate. After all, over eight billion people live on Earth.

His illness only complicated the matter. It's always been his belief that he was never meant to survive it. Or, perhaps, it was a wish. From that point onwards, finding someone—anyone, not even just his soulmate—to share his life with became more than a longing wish; it became an obsession. He, at the tender age of seven, had been exposed to the concept of death. Not through the passing of another, either; no. _he_ had died. He knew this. The doctors had told him, as had his parents. He'd died thrice: first, just before he was placed into an induced coma; second, halfway through his three-month period of unconsciousness; and, finally, shortly after waking, for reasons no one was ever sure of. And, despite most professionals' disputations, Karkat is sure this realization, the understanding that _he_ could die at any minute, was what began the most miserable years of his life.

After the meningitis, when he was finally released from the hospital, Karkat was subjected to years of isolation. In the first two years, it was necessary. A brash, panicked determination fueled what was hailed as a remarkable recovery. Nevertheless, it took him two years to be able to walk upright, without the aid of a walker, and it would be another full year before he abandoned the use of a cane. By the third year, and on his tenth birthday, he was finally allowed to return to public school. There, he began to isolate himself. He covered his scars religiously, wearing only long pants and sweatshirts or button-ups for years. (The first time he wore a short-sleeved shirt was little more than two years ago, and he's never allowed himself to wear shorts.)

He found, too, that his innocence was gone. The carefree, happy child he had been was no more. Instead, there was a constant, defensive anger. He lashed out at anyone who dared to suggest he was different. His mind, his very being, was changed. Was it the disease? Maybe. Or, maybe, it was a sense that what happened to him was wrong. He should never have been exposed to the bacteria that caused his suffering, yet an unvaccinated teacher's aid introduced it to him. Karkat has never been sure of the cause of his sudden personality shift. All he knows is that, if he hadn't contracted meningitis, he'd likely have remained as carefree and joyful as any other kid his age should have been.

Regardless, he continued his search for love. Even though he was ten, he began to pursue his peers romantically. His first relationship was established with a girl by the name of Terezi, at the age of eleven, and it ended quickly. (They've remained friends, though.) After that, he tried to connect with other girls. After three girlfriends, all of them short-lived and spread over a year, he came to realize he was attracted to other boys.

On his thirteenth birthday, Karkat revealed this fact to his parents. On that day, he lost everything he had known, and his childhood officially ended. From that day forward, he was an adult.

The next five years were spent on the streets, moving from one shelter to the other and inventing stories to avoid being placed in the foster care system. Family was no longer a concept he recognized, nor did he want to embrace it. And, oftentimes, as he does now, Karkat wonders how different things would be, if his parents hadn't disowned him. Would he have been more comfortable with himself? Would some of his scars, many of which were still due to be properly corrected through surgery, have faded? He had barely finished speech therapy at that point, and he had little more than a rudimentary knowledge of sign language. The rest, he learned as he passed through town after town, doing his damnedest to avoid being caught and putting as much distance between himself and his old life as he could.

By eighteen, he'd arrived in Skaia. He held a piss-poor job, made just above minimum wage, and had taught himself everything he knew. With what he'd learned from local libraries and eavesdropping on classes through open windows, he supposed he had enough basic knowledge. He faked his educational credentials and managed to get into community college, where he was surprised to meet an familiar face, from his hometown, Kanaya. The two rekindled a childhood friendship.

When they graduated, Kanaya invited Karkat to live with her. Despite her youth, determination and luck were on her side, and she'd attained great renown and wealth.

Eager to finally get off of the streets and have a roof over his head for the first time in over a decade, he accepted. And, from there, things happened, as they often tend to, and, now...

A long, pensive sigh escaped Karkat. He closes his eyes and feels the gentle rise and fall of Dave's chest against his back. He feels the other man's heartbeat, and he wonders if he's changed at all. Is he a different person from who he was meant to be when he was born? Yes. Yes, it certainly _feels_ that way. But, more importantly, what separates him from his past? How far has he come from the brash, irritable child he was? Again, further introspection provides an answer: he's not. He's still the same self-isolating hothead he was then, but, perhaps, he can change... He _wants_ to change.

* * *

**DAVE STRIDER** wakes to the smell of fresh pancakes and citrus fruits. The aroma, like the hand of God himself, grabs him and pulls him from his bed, leading him downstairs.

There, he is greeted by Karkat, who is in the process of placing the last of five pancakes on top of the stack. A glass of orange juice is set on the table, presumably both freshly squeezed and the source of the citrus scent. The daily newspaper, which Rose insists upon having delivered in paper form to the house on a weekly basis, is open to the daily crossword, which Karkat seems to have begun filling out.

“Mornin',” Dave yawns.

The other man nods. The bandage on his forehead is still in place, though it's been replaced. He sits down, picks up his pen, and resumes his work on the crossword. It dawns upon Dave that, when Karkat is deep in thought, he fidgets. He clicks his pen repeatedly, and the randomness eventually settles into a steady beat. One, two, three. Two, two three. Three, two, three...

“How long have you been awake?”

Karkat's frown deepens. He looks up, his left brow raised higher than the right, and shrugs. “Less than an hour, I guess,” he responds. His words are less articulated than usual; the 'S's sound like 'Z's, and the vowels blend together.

“You feeling okay?” Dave asks. When it's clear that the reason for this question has flown over Karkat's head, he clarifies, “You're talking funny. I can understand you, but you don't sound like you usually do.”

“It's early and I got _maybe_ three hours of sleep. So, yeah, I'm sure I sound a little fucking out of it,” Karkat quips. Though the words sound as if they should be harsh, they're delivered with the utmost disinterest. “Don't worry about it.”

Dave nods. He takes one of the pancakes and begins eating. It's light, fluffy, and delicious, but that won't stop him from talking. Silence has never been something he's comfortable with. Nowadays, he's learning to make peace with it, but he prefers when there's a discussion happening. “Bad dreams? Was I flailing around and beating you up? If it was that second one, I should probably get on m knees and grovel out a real apology...”

When Karkat responds, there's an uncharacteristic bite to his voice. He's defending something, but Dave can't even begin to imagine what that something would be. “It wasn't you, and it wasn't bad dreams. I fucking said to not worry about it, so don't fucking worry about it.” His brows are furrowed, his jaw, set, and it's obvious the reason for his sleepless night won't be coming out any time soon.

So, despite his apprehension, Dave drops the topic. It's obvious that meaningful discussion won't be occurring right now, and he pulls out his phone. He mindlessly browses the internet, doing just about anything to keep himself from either noticing or thinking about the oppressive atmosphere. The tension makes the air thick, and the unease makes his skin crawl. He's not sure if it's him, or if it's something Karkat has to handle on his own, and he has a feeling that he won't find the answer to this question any time soon, and, certainly, not today.

* * *

**KARKAT VANTAS** is, despite the circumstances, the first to cut through the unpleasantness surrounding both him and his fake (?) boyfriend. It's roughly 10:00 AM, and he figures that two hours of pure, unbridled discomfort is enough for the day. “Hey, Strider,” he says, now awake enough to put sufficient effort to proper pronunciation.

Dave, naturally, reacts. He head turns, so that he faces Karkat, and he lets forth a curious hum. To Karkat, it's more of a buzzing noise.

“Sorry about earlier. I was tired, but that doesn't give me a good excuse for being a fucking dickweed.” As he speaks, Karkat feels the heat rising to his cheeks. He offers a nervous chuckle to supplement his commentary. “I guess I was just... I don't know. I guess I've been thinking a lot about life, and how mine is one massive, nidorous pile of bullshit. As much as it might seem like it, I really didn't mean to take it out on you.”

To Karkat's relief, Dave offers an understanding nod. “I get that. Guess we ain't that different after all, huh?”

“Hey, now, I wouldn't go that fucking far. In most ways, I am in no way comparable to your particular brand of being an absolute tool, okay? Let's not overstep any boundaries and plant our feet squarely in gigantic fucking piles of logical fallacies.” While Karkat wags a finger in response to the allegation, he can't help but be interested. “Besides, what's that supposed to mean?”

“Well, let's start with the differences.” As always, Dave remains expressionless. His voice is flat, even as he begins to count the pair's disparities on his fingers. “You don't like music, and I love it. You're a model, and I'm a photographer. You're a short little motherfucker, and I'm _way_ taller than you,” as he mentions this point, Dave smirks. “And, fuck, lemme just come out and say it, why don't I? I fuck up everything else by opening my mouth, so let's get it off the table and into the leftovers bag. You're deaf, and I'm not.”

Though part of Karkat automatically kicks into defense mode, the majority of his being stays remarkably calm. He manages to suppress his most primal urge, to retaliate with force, and, instead, shrugs. “All those points are fair and obvious. So, then, what about _not_ being different, you obtuse bastard?”

To Karkat's surprise, Dave removes his shades. After clipping them to his shirt, he locks eyes with Karkat, as if to gauge his reaction to his answer. “We're both absolutely fucked, aren't we? Both of us are as clueless as schoolkids filling out tax forms. Our families have abandoned us, and we're just dumbasses drifting in life's puke-scented wind, huh?” There's a remarkable clarity in his eyes as he speaks. Whereas they're usually blank and unreadable, they're now brimming with a sort of unspoken, shared awareness. There's history behind his gaze, and there's a loneliness that's only now beginning to heal, and these things fill Karkat with a burning desire to understand.

Who exactly is Dave Strider? How did he end up here? Why is he, too, so hesitant to truly connect with people?

The questions flood Karkat's mind just as the shades are returned to their usual place, and Dave's eyes are once again hidden. When the blond speaks again, his words are cold. “We're both lonely, miserable fuckers, ain't we?”

“Yeah,” Karkat breathes, still reeling from the experience, “I guess we are.”

“Well, then, I guess it's... kinda' nice...” Dave says, only clarifying himself after a few moments of silence. “Y'know... That we met each other. It's nice we met each other, is what I'm sayin'. Not sure if you agree, and I'd be pretty damned surprised if you did, since I'm such an throbbing anus of anti-charisma, but I... I'm glad we know each other.”

Though he tries not to, Karkat finds himself smiling. “Yeah... I am, too, Strider.”


	35. Just an Old Fashioned Love Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **listen to it here!** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RpPIbAec0E8)

**DAVE STRIDER** is, quite honestly, proud of what he's accomplished. The idea struck him around midnight, just a few hours before the final Holiday Bauble sketch was due to be given to Shiro. On the page, he has created something he believes to be spectacular. The image depicts an angular spaceship fortress, comprised of five sections. A large central portion is attached to four towers, all of which are anchored to the ship with arms, which cross at the center to form an 'X'-shape.

He sneaks out of the room, away from a sleeping Karkat, and sends the file to Shiro.

Then, he returns to bed.

* * *

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] opened a memo on board OH MY GOD IT'S ALMOST CHRISTMAS WHAT DO I FUCKIN DO --

TG: okay so i know it's almost the holiday season and all that fun jazz and i have most of my presents planned out since i have no goddamned friends but i'm kind of missing a pretty fuckin major gift it's a glaring omission on santa's holly jolly list and this dumbass elf is getting some hardcore anxiety about it  
TG: so i've convened a congress of people i know will have good advice about this

\-- mulletLover [ML] responded to memo at 09:56! --

ML: first of all i barely fucking know you. second of all will you just cut to the chase? you have to have a point and you're not saying it.

TG: okay first of all rude you interrupted my wonderful speech  
TG: look at me i'm crying my heart is fuckin broken you've thrown it on the floor and now you dance on it like a huge douchebag because i had this whole lovely introduction thought out and now you're cutting me off

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] responded to memo at 10:02! --

TT: I believe what my half-brother is trying to say is that he's neglected to conceptualize a Christmas present for his boyfriend.

ML: thanks rose. see rose knows how to get to the damn point dave. follow her example.  
ML: and honestly i don't know why i'm in this chat? i barely know karkat he's some sort of weird hermit.

\-- paladinDad [PD] responded to memo at 10:05! --

PD: yeah honestly? same here karkat is a pretty quiet guy.

ML: okay maybe not quiet because that guy sure can shout but he's private.  
ML: we really don't know much about him. sorry we can't help more.  
ML: oh but your design for the holiday thing was super cool. we're cleaning it up now and getting a plan out for the printer.

PD: yeah it's super cool dave. thanks for the hard work!

\-- paladinDad [PD] has left the memo! --  
\-- mulletLover [ML] has left the memo! --

TG: ...  
TG: well that was fuckin useless thanks for nothing losers next time i see y'all i'll need to kick your asses  
TG: note to future dave be sure to kick the voltron crew's asses

\-- grimAuxiliatrix [GA] responded to memo at 10:16! --

GA: As Amusing As It Has Been To Observe This Clusterfuck Of An Excuse For A Gift Exchanging Brainstorm Session I Have To Break Up This Little Party

TT: Oh! Hello, dear. I trust that you slept well, as you've woken up later than you usually do. <3

TG: get your own chat for that nerds

GA: Oh Dear It Seems I Am A Little Busy Kissing Rose To Respond Further Please Hold

TG: i can see you trying to read over my shoulder karkat so cut it dude  
TG: and you two stop being gross i need some fuckin help i'm sinking faster than the goddamned titanic

GA: Okay Fair I Will Help You With Your Current Situation  
GA: If You Really Want To Give Karkat A Wonderful Present The Best Option Is To Make One Yourself He Is A Real Sucker For Items Of Great Sentimental Value Particularly Those He Understands Have Effort And Time Behind Them  
GA: Does That Make Sense

TG: yeah sure but what the fuck do i make him

GA: Last Year I Gifted Him A Hand-Made Monogrammed Sweater And He Seemed Quite Pleased  
GA: I Collaborated With His Friend Sollux Who Gave Him A Matching Scarf

TG: so get him clothes

GA: Well You See From You Clothing Will Not Mean Much So I Recommend Against That Unless You Are Like Your Lovely Half-Sister And Can Knit  
GA: I Would Pick Something You Are Very Good At And Do Something In That Particular Medium So What Art Forms Do You Excel At

TG: i don't fuckin know dammit  
TG: ...  
TG: i can't give a deaf guy music can i no probably not that's a fuckin awful idea he said he hated music one time i think does he hate music i think he does either fuckin way it's tasteless and i'll look like boo boo that dumbass piece of shit fool

TT: David, calm down. You're correct in that Karkat dislikes music. He has disclosed this to me, multiple times, during times I am in his space. So, yes, I suggest you not provide him music for Christmas, as it will look quite bad and it is very likely that he would be upset. I might even deign to say that he would be pissed.

GA: Dave Karkat Really Does Care For You Despite His Own Vulnerabilities Which Means You Have Earned His Trust And That Is Already An Impressive Feat Anything You Might Give Him Within Reason Will Be Greatly Appreciated  
GA: But You Must Have Some Sort Of Other Talent

TT: Paint him something. David, I am fully aware of your artistic powers, despite your insistence otherwise. If I had no confidence in your artwork, I would have discarded your drafting table, as it's quite large and unwieldy. So, paint him something.

TG: okay great we're getting somewhere i guess but what the fuck do i paint

GA: You Will Find Out With Time

TG: I DON'T HAVE ANY FUCKIN TIME

TT: David, breathe. Breathe and think about it. Right now, Kanaya and I must depart. I'm sorry, but we are scheduled to attend a local theatrical group's performance of My Fair Lady, so...

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] has left the memo! --

GA: Trust Me When I Say That You Will Soon Come Up With Something To Paint Karkat Is A Very Emotional Person And He Is Awful At Hiding His Feelings So Just Watch And Observe Him And An Idea Will Come To You  
GA: I Apologize I Was Unable To Do More

TG: wait shit fuck please don't go yet i still need help

\-- grimAuxiliatrix [GA] has left the memo! --

TG: fuck

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] has closed the memo! --

* * *

**DAVE STRIDER** sits on the sofa, his feet dangling over the edge of the left armrest, with his back pressed to Karkat's. Right now, he's busy trying to catch glimpses of what Karkat is watching by using his front-facing phone camera.

Right now, it seems Karkat is watching one of those weird cooking videos, the sort where they show you wildly sped up clips of food making steps and describe, briefly, how to create the final product. This particular video is focused around some sort of spaghetti-stuffed meatball, which Dave must confess sounds pretty good. As the video plays, Karkat nods sagely. Then, suddenly, he stops. He looks up, so that he stares directly into the camera, and growls. “Hey, Strider?”

Quickly lowering his phone, Dave nods. “Mmhmm...”

“What the literal fuck are you doing?” Karkat asks, his voice unnervingly calm.

“My phone... wasn't... getting signal,” Dave lies.

Clearly, Karkat isn't buying it. Nevertheless, he simply nods. “Okay. So, tell me something.”

“Yeah?”

“Music,” Karkat begins. Unbeknownst to Dave, his brows are furrowed, and the edges of his lips are turned downward, into a small, distressed frown. “I used to love music. I mean... I _used_ to love music. I think I liked music.” He shakes his head. “It's annoying as fuck, knowing you used to love something so much and just... not being able to remember it.”

“Honestly, pal, you ain't making much sense, here...” Dave admits, rubbing the back of his neck. In the process, the back of his fingers brushes against Karkat's neck, and he rapidly withdraws. His shoulders tense, and heat rushes to his cheeks. “What do you mean you _don't remember_?”

“I mean exactly what I fucking said, you dundershit!” Karkat snaps. Then, he pauses. He takes a deep breath in, then breathes out. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, and the edge has been rounded off. “I mean that I can't remember what it was like. I guess I've spent so long avoiding it that I never bothered to understand it again.” Dave can feel the muscles in Karkat's shoulders drop, going limp, as he continues, “I played cello. I was _just learning_ to play cello, and nature took a fucking huge dump on me.”

For the first time in a long while, Dave finds himself dumbfounded. He is really, truly unable to come up with an answer. Music has always been such an integral part of his life. He's rapped (or, at least, tried to) since he could speak. When he had free time, he taught himself to play guitar, piano, and bass. (All three instruments had been methodically stolen from the junk in the main apartment.) He opens his mouth to respond, only to close it.

“Dave?” Karkat turns, and Dave feels his gaze. He's curious. He wants to know.

And, yet, Dave can't give him an answer. “It's... I don't fuckin' know, dammit! God.” Now, Dave goes limp. He buries his face in his hands and groans. _Always,_ Dave finds himself thinking, _I always fuck up._ “Music is like... It's... It's your fuckin' heartbeat in your chest, that sort of rhythmic pounding against your breast. It's the sound of the feeling of the wind against your skin, and voices that hum and murmur and buzz like a violin. I...” He feels his eyes stinging as his frustration at himself increases. “I don't understand it, dude. I... I really don't. I'm sorry.”

For several nerve-wracking minutes, Karkat is silent. Then, suddenly, just as tears begin to flow from Dave's eyes, he speaks. “Actually... That was... Did you know you just rhymed that whole thing? That was pretty fucking cool, Strider. I mean, don't let that compliment go to your head, because the last thing we need is another inflated self-righteous dumbass wandering around, but that was _really good_.”

Experience has taught Dave how to keep his voice even through his tears. He wipes his nose against his sleeve. “Really? I didn't know I was rhyming, no. Guess I just do that sometimes...”

“Yeah, well... It was nice. I wouldn't mind if you did again, really...”

Though the tears have stopped, Dave now finds himself blushing. A smile has worked its way onto his face and, for the first time in years, he feels truly proud of himself. For once, the voices in his mind, which so often deride and devalue him, are quiet. “Okay. I can do that.” As he says this, realization dawns upon him. He knows what to do for Karkat.

“Hey, Strider?”

“Yeah?”

“I... I really do like you. You're a gargantuan clusterfuck of a human being, but I... I have to admit that I fucking love you,“ Karkat says, his voice thick with nerves and embarrassment.

And Dave, instinctively, speaks words he has never once said aloud to another human being before, “You know what? I fuckin' love you, too, nerd.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god there is just..... so much dave in this chapter.... i didn't mean to make so many parts dave's pov....


	36. Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise my random insertion of shitty original poetry will make sense later. Maybe now if you have a hunch.

The beating of the bass and the boom of the heart,  
Under mixed sounds and melodies that the ears can't part  
Is the symphony of the world, a song unsung,  
Like the sky, the clouds, and the sun, it all becomes one.

 **KARKAT VANTAS** , despite already having spent three days in Rose's house with Dave, finds himself hesitant to leave. Sure, he misses the place he's called home for the past few years, but he's always found it too large, too empty. There's a coldness to Kanaya's mansion, which the cozy Strider-Lalonde (Strilonde?) abode lacks. So, even as he packs his things into the bag Kanaya dropped off, he asks, “You're sure you're fine here? Rose says she's probably staying with us for a while, so you'll be alone.”

Dave, with his hands in his pockets and his back against the frame of the door to his room, nods. An unlit cigarette dangles from his mouth, as if he's just itching to light it. “I'm sure. I'll be fine. What are you, my mom? I sure fuckin' hope you ain't my mom, because that'd be freaky as hell. She's been dead for... uh...” Here, Dave pauses. He counts on his fingers before continuing, concluding, “Twenty-two years. She's been dead for twenty-two years, so I'm guessing you ain't my mom.”

“No, I'm just your boyfriend.” Karkat finishes saying this just as he zips up his bag. Now done with everything he absolutely _must_ do, he relaxes. “Your _real_ boyfriend, now, right?”

“Sure.” Dave smirks. The reaction is far below the level of excitement the average person might express, but it's something for Dave. One hand rubs the back of his neck, and the other plucks his cigarette from his mouth. “But, as far as Rose and Kanaya know, it's always been that, right?”

“Exactly.”

“I...” Right now, Dave isn't wearing his shades. They rest atop his head, amidst his uncombed hair, and his eyes are visible. Before he says any more, he looks away, focusing on the ceiling. “I guess I owe ya' a thanks, huh? So... Thank you. No one's ever really give that much of a fuck 'bout me, so... It's nice. It's nice knowing you're out there, somewhere, and I guess you've got my back.”

“There's no 'guessing' about it, you thick-skulled idiot. That's just what friends do for each other.” Though Karkat laughs at his words, he feels a nagging sadness deep in his chest. Truly, he and Dave aren't that different. They've both lived lives of isolation and loneliness, and they both are only now realizing the true meaning of having someone to rely on.

The world and its chaos can be summarized  
By the notes of a song, which the heart can devise.

 **DAVE STRIDER** , despite having planned to spend the day home alone, finds himself in the middle of an upscale bridal store. His eyes feel heavy, and boredom is consuming him like an aggressive flesh-eating virus.

“Hm. This looks lovely. The fabric is wonderfully soft, and the suit is neither excessively gaudy nor particularly bland,” Rose thinks aloud as she prods at an otherwise unassuming black suit. A pink bow tie seems to come included with this particular outfit, as do a pair of shiny black shoes.

Dave sees little difference between this and the fifteen other suits he's looked at with his half-sister. In fact, the more suits he looks at, the uglier each subsequent one becomes. “Please, Rose, I'm fuckin' begging you to just pick something. I'm dyin' here, Lalonde.” Leaning against the wall, Dave slides into a sitting position and, from there, he sprawls himself out on the floor of the viewing room. He remains like this despite the stares he receives, and without any regard for the look of disdain on Rose's face. “Why am I even here? Why not invite one of your other girl friends, like... Like Jade. We both know Jade! She'd love to come help you pick out some... whatever the fuck this is.”

Oh, but wouldn't that rob my dear half-brother of a wonderful chance to bond with me? Truly, dear partial-sibling, this breaks my heart.” Despite her straight delivery of her words, Rose is smirking. “I merely wish for you to be part of my big day.”

“You're just making me stay here so you can ask me shit about Karkat, and my lips are fuckin' sealed. My mouth is a dungeon cell, the truth about my romantic life is a fuckin' prisoner, and I've eaten the key, then shat it out into the deepest of pits. You ain't gettin' shit out of me, Rose.” A smug, confident hum punctuates this statement.

Rose, however, does what she usually does. She zeroes in on a crack, one that Dave isn't even entire sure he exposed. “You've finally seen how similar you are, haven't you?”

“JESUS FUCKIN' CHRIST, LALONDE! You _must_ have bugged the house. What the hell?”

The answer to the implied question is little more than a soft chuckle. “Kanaya has spoken to me about Karkat's past, and it's not hard to see the parallels. Both of you are vulnerable, and I'm truly glad that you've found one another. I know that, coming from me, that seems like a friendly form of snide sarcasm, but I am _really_ happy the two of you have found someone to talk to.” As her usual smirk fades, turning to a genuine smile, she sets her hand on Dave's shoulder. “I just wanted to tell you that, and I'll also be taking this suit. You may return home, now, if you like.”

“Speaking of going home,” interjects Dave, completely derailing the moment of sincerity, “What's happening to the place when you get married? I mean, I ain't making enough to hold it down myself, so...”

“Kanaya has agreed to, as a show of goodwill, pay off the home. You will be allowed to remain there, if you wish. You are also invited to join us and live in the mansion. There is most certainly a twin bed room for you, and there's also a room for two,” Rose says, with a wink.

Dave blushes. “Ha ha. Very funny, Rose.”

“Well, I thought it was.”


	37. My Heart Will Go On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not sure what else the goddamned song for this chapter could be, let's be fuckin real. i'm also a giant titanic nerd, and this was just my excuse to show it.

Bells, effervescent, ring like the stars in the night,  
Shimmering, sparkling, and bright. Bursts of light,  
Flares of sound, fireworks, form the shapes  
Of the music and mold the soundscape.

 **DAVE STRIDER** has never understood himself. He’s always kept himself distant, from others and from his own thoughts. Overthinking asinine bullshit, sure! He can do that in a heartbeat, but he can’t parse emotions for shit. Feelings are an enigma.

So, why is Dave thinking about them now? Perhaps because it’s the first time he’s ever been truly alone. Normally, he’s had somebody, or the _threat_ of somebody looming over him. Freedom is a new concept, and it’s scary as hell. People have always told him what to do. Wake up, now. Go to school. Come to the roof, now. Fight me, now.

Who is he, really?

Right now, he’s just another resident of Skaia. He lives with his half-sister, is dating an irritable idiot, and he’s picked up the habit of chain smoking. Freedom. Now, he’s free to smoke as much as he wants. Yesterday, he went through a whole pack. It’s his choice, and it’s something he’s never been able to do before. It calms his nerves, and it often serves to put his demons to rest for a bit.

Sure, he knows it’s not something that’s good for him. He’s seen the ads. He’s gone through health class. But, for him, it’s the best he has. After all, who could he tell about his past? No one would believe him. Whose father summons his son to roof of their penthouse apartment to fucking sword fight with him? Fathers love their sons and teach them about the world. They play catch with them and love them. That’s what Dave learned from the movies, and it’s what he knows, now, to be normal.

What he grew up with? That wasn’t normal. That wasn’t even sane.

“Am I gay?” The words stare out at him, deep black against the white search bar.

Rose says that he’s not. He’s bisexual, according to her, and that only confuses him more. How can he be bisexual? He has to choose one, doesn’t he? He can’t be indecisive. That’s not the Strider way. Not that such hypermasculine codes matter, anyhow, but...

Dave sighs. He opens up his notebook, in which he’s currently doodling random sketches, and he lets himself go. It doesn’t make much sense to him, but drawing has always been one of the ways he’s calmed himself. His hands create what his heart feels and, after an hour or so, he finds himself staring at a portrait of Karkat. He didn’t consciously create it, nor did he realize how well he’d managed to memorize the man’s face, yet, the likeness on the page is striking.

Karkat... The mere thought of the name births a warmth in Dave’s chest. His body relaxes, and he feels both vulnerable and invincible. His heart races. What does it all mean? What does the name mean to him? It’s a sense of security, a welcoming respite from the daily tedium. It’s something he’s never really had before outside of the Internet—a friend.

With the notebook held against his chest, DVe scuttles over to his bed. He lays down, facing the ceiling, and closes his eyes.

Rose taught him this exercise when he first started speaking with her online, shortly after he’d learned of her relationship to him. He removes all thoughts from his mind. They pass by, like cars on a highway, and he acknowledges them, then, they fade. When his mind is clear, he conjures an image that brings him a sense of ease, only to realize that it’s Karkat.

His eyes snap open, and he takes a deep breath. Clearly, he’s in this shit, and he’s in it deep.

* * *

**KARKAT VANTAS** will be the first person to tell you that he does _not_ like soda, nor does he like beer. He finds the carbonation to be harsh on both his throat and his stomach, and he’s no big fan of burping. It’s not so much at its rude, rather, he just hates the sensation of it occuring. So, he finds it odd that Dave would bother to bring both beer and soda to the two-person party. Perhaps he’s never told him about his tastes? Certainly, he should do so later tonight.

For now, though, Karkat is simply excited to have someone he can watch a movie with. He begins eagerly, spreading the few films he’s chosen onto the table. “Okay, so I’ve chosen a few romances you might like. I have _Titanic, Shape of Water,_ and _Baby Driver._ ”

Dave seems to study the movies closely, and he gives commentary on each. “This one looks kind of weird,” he says, pointing to _Shape of Water_. “And this one’s lead looks too much like me,” he concludes, now aiming his criticism at _Baby Driver_. “We’ll go with the stupid tragedy, I guess.”

“First of all,” Karkat quips as he prepares the film, “Its not stupid. Second of all, Leonardo DiCaprio is fucking hot. Third of all, I like this movie, so just shut up and enjoy it.”

Dave, with his hands folded behind his head, smirks. A soft snicker escapes him. “Yeah, sure. I’ll try not to laugh too much at it.”

“OH SHIT THE MOVIE IS STARTING!” Pidge, who has been hiding in the kitchen, emerges. She vaults gracefully over the sofa, and lands on the other side of Karkat. “I’m always a slut for historical movies.”

“W-why is she here!?” Dave sputters.

Karkat shrugs. “She heard I was showing the movie and wanted to come.”

“Then how the fuck is this a date!?” Dave groans. He reaches over, pops open a can of beer, and buries his face in his free hand. “I brought booze and everything, and it’s just a casual movie night. Everyone, behold, it is I, Boo Boo the goddamned Fool. Laugh it up, ladies and gentlemen.”

“Shut up, it’s starting,” both Pidge and Karkat chorus, in unison.

The film presents a submerged wreck, its facade marred by various rocklike protrusions, comes into view. A voice speaks, “We are here.”

“Oh, God,” Dave groans. “How long is this?”

Pidge supplies one answer, “The movie is approximately the length of time it took for the ship to sink in real life!”

Karkat, meanwhile, offers a more Strider-appropriate translation, “I told you to clear out three hours of your schedule, just in case.”

“THREE HOURS!?”

Again, Karkat and Pidge work in unison. “Shhhhh.”

* * *

**DAVE STRIDER** had no clue what he was agreeing to when he said he’d watch a movie with Karkat, but it sure as _Hell_ did not involve Pidge Gunderson, nor did it involve a three-hour slog through the _Edwardian_ (as Karkat corrected him, “It’s not Victorian, you absolute goddamned pine cone”) Era’s most dramatic disaster, which Dave has a feeling is turning into _his_ most dramatic mistake. It's take the movie _half a fucking hour_ to even show the goddamned ship, so he's not very optimistic about the rest.

Onscreen, a woman, clad in remarkably elaborate clothing and wearing a stupidly wide-brimmed hat stands onscreen. “I don't see what all the fuss is about,” she tuts, “It doesn't look any bigger than the _Mauretania_.” As she finishes speaking, an absolute douchebag of a man steps from an old-fashioned car.

Pidge, meanwhile, interjects. “Wrong! The _Titanic_ was actually almost 100 feet longer than the _Mauretania_.”

Karkat nods sagely, a smile spread across his face. “The _Titanic_ was also far more luxurious than the other lines of the time. The White Star Line was highly invested in providing luxury to all its passengers. God, this is the fucking best! Strider, aren't you having fun yet?” As if to rub this whole situation in more, he leans in, closer to Dave's ear, and whispers, “Are you feeling it _now_ , Strider?”

“What I'm feeling,” Dave deadpans, “Is ready to shoot myself in the fuckin' head.”

 

The trio is now roughly one hour into the film, perhaps a little less. Both Pidge and Karkat have refused to divulge the remaining runtime, citing the fact that Dave asked for it thirteen times in ten minutes. Surely, this is a major exaggeration, but who knows? All Dave knows is that, right now, he's at a gathering hosted by a nerd and attended by himself and an  _even bigger_ nerd.

Jack, or, rather, Leonardo DiCaprio, is admittedly hot. Dave has to very reluctantly admit that this much is true. Right now, he is standing before a distraught Kate Winslet, (“Rose Dawson, you dense  _motherfucker_ ,” Karkat had said) who, like Dave, is about to throw herself off this stupid hell ship. “I've got you. I won't let go,” croons DiCaprio.

“How the hell did he even get there, to the top deck?” Pidge asks, tossing popcorn into her mouth. “A third class passenger would've been kept a few decks below that, and their main stairwell didn't even really let out that high up. This is absolute bullshit.”

As has been true for this entire viewing, Karkat nods in agreement. He rolls his eyes. “Who fucking knows? It's James Cameron. That guy is weird, just so you know. He starred in a documentary on the sinking, shown on Discovery Channel.”

“HOW FUCKIN' INTRIGUING!” Dave snaps.

Again, he is ganged up on. “Shhhhh.”

 

Dave has now forgone keeping track of time. For all he knows, he's been stuck watching this film for three weeks. He's been told, multiple times, too, that the film is about to pick up. “It'll get interesting soon,” Karkat has reassured. “The big stuff happens in a little bit,” Pidge has said.

Two men stand stand in the lookout post, or the crow's nest, whatever the fuck it's called. They're discussing something about binoculars and, as Dave has grown accustomed to, so are his film-viewing companions.

This time, Karkat is the first to speak. Despite mentioning a short time ago that he dislikes beer and similarly carbonated beverages, he's not drinking champagne, which Pidge brought from the kitchen. He's drinking straight from the bottle, and he throws his head back and downs some more. “Hey,” he burps, “Isn't the reason Lightoller and Murdoch can't find their binoculars because one of them left them behind, in the lockers at the Belfast launch?”

Pidge, her cheeks now colored soft pink, shrugs. “I've read recently that it was because of a command restructure. Someone replaced Wilde as First Officer, and that asshole had the key to the crow's nest lockers. So, maybe, it's because someone decided to kick someone off the crew for no solid reason.”

“Solid, solid,” Karkat hums. “So, why bother speeding up in the middle of an ice field? Nah, nah, I don't feel like waiting for an answer. I've got this shit nailed down. Aside from a coal shortage, which forced stokers to use the stock that  _wasn't_ fucking on fire to the max speed to make it, it was standard procedure to rush through ice fields to keep passengers from losing their shit.”

“Awesome.” Pidge pauses. After munching on another handful of popcorn, she reaches towards Dave. “Pass another beer, please.”

Only two are left. As Dave obliges, he adds a caveat, “This last one is mine, or I'm sure that we're not fuckin' getting through this bullshit alive. At least, I sure as fuck ain't.”

 

It feels like it's been days since Dave has seen the light of the outside world, or heard a single line of film dialogue that isn't terrible. He's now watched people get locked behind walls, preventing them from evacuating (and, according to both Pidge and Karkat, this is inaccurate); seen people in lifeboats forced to return to the sinking ship to recover hypothermic victims; and witnessed DiCaprio's minor character buddy get crushed by a falling funnel. He's also learned far more about the ship's sinking than he ever wanted or needed to, and he's placed the film firmly at the top of his shit list. Creator James Cameron is also now at the top of his shit list.

Now, Jack and Rose are performing the familiar scene. Both are on a floating door, which Karkat has loudly proclaimed was part of a first class section, and Jack is dying of, not surprisingly, hypothermia.

Naturally, Dave feels the need to speak up. “They can both fuckin' fit, dammit!”

“Actually,” Pidge says, “ _Mythbusters_ investigated this claim, and found that they could both  _fit_ , but they logically wouldn't have been able to float.” At this point, she proceeds to smear more popcorn butter onto the glasses, as she drunkenly tries to adjust them. She seems to be either unaware of this development or unconcerned. Dave can only assume it's the latter of these two things, because her lenses have been thoroughly greased for at least an hour. “They determined that, with the appropriate amount of life jackets tied beneath the wood, Jack and Rose could have kept it buoyant enough for Jack to climb on.”

“Then those two dumbasses should go get some life jackets?” Dave counters.

Again, it's him against Pidge and Karkat. This time, Karkat responds. “They're both in shock, suffering from the freezing cold of the Arctic Circle, and probably pretty sure they're dying. They're not in the right mindset to have such advanced problem-solving skills, Strider.”

Dave groans. He buries his face in his hands, only barely registering the mathematical babbling Pidge is now offering as evidence, and mutters under his breath, “This was the  _absolute worst_ idea I've ever had.”

To his surprise, this utterance is met with a response. An arm wraps around his shoulders and pulls him close to a source of warmth. His nose is filled with the richly textured aroma of none other than Karkat Vantas and, when he pries his face from his hands, he sees the other man smiling. “I'm going to guess this movie is top on your new worst movies list?” he whispers.

“Oh, it's way fuckin' more than that. You owe me, Vantas,” Dave growls.

Karkat nods, as if to agree with this conclusion. “We'll watch one of your dumbass films next, Strider.”


	38. Chattanooga Choo Choo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i write my texts according to actual texts, so capitalization and all that are included, since phones autocorrect for that shit. this is also why karkat's texts aren't in all caps. **EXCITING NEWS! I have also updated[Chapter 24](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11824542/chapters/36390750) (Here Comes the Sun) with an image!** If you want to see the image without reversing all the way back to Chapter 24, you can [**view it here**](https://tt40art.tumblr.com/post/177492164479/yet-another-dave-strider-this-took-about-25)!

The trill of brass adds light to the land,  
Breathing life to the world and energy to the band.  
And with these sounds, the world stops, in awe,  
As music crescendos, like the rising of dawn.

 **DAVE STRIDER** stands in the middle of an ever-growing crowd, which has lined the Main Street sidewalk to view the annual Christmas parade. (Or, more specifically, the Holiday Parade.) It’s loud, chaotic, and absolutely balls-to-that-wall insane. None of these things are situational descriptors that Dave is particularly fond of.

Nonetheless, he feels almost obligated to be here. There are various reasons for this. Firstly, the Maryam Brand’s flagship brick-and-mortar store is located on Main Street, and this has a float in the parade; moreover, both Dave’s half-sister and her fiancée will be standing on said float. If word on the street is to be believed, this particular float is also quite extravagant. At the very least, it’s high brow for a small town Christmas parade. Secondly, his ornament—the one he designed—is being revealed, and he is getting credit as the primary artist. Third on the list of “Why Dave Strider should be at the dumbass Holiday Parade” is an invitation. He was invited by Karkat, and he plans to uphold his promise. Finally, Rose has forced him to come, anyhow. If she doesn’t see him in the crowd, his ass is grass.

It is for this fourth reason that Dave has requested that Karkat, who lives slightly closer to the route, reserve him a spot near the front. This has, according to recently exchanged texts, been done. Being as plan-oriented and insightful as he is, Karkat has also brought blankets and hot choclate. Now, the only problem remaining is _where the fuck_ Karkat is.

This affair would be a whole lot easier if Dave could simply call a Karkat. Exchanging directions and following them have never been in Dave’s column of strengths. Doing so slowly, via painstakingly typed out and detailed guidance, is just plain infuriating. Unfortunately for Dave, due to the inherent noise of the parade, Karkat’s implant is essentially useless. Using a video call is also off the table, as Dave doesn’t know enough sign language to properly utilize this helpful tool.

So, texts it is. He looks down, at the most recent text, and sighs.

“Where the fuck are you, dumbfuck? The parade starts in six minutes. Are you still lost? God fucking dammit, you’re truly hopeless,” the text reads. Shortly after this message arrives, another one comes in. “Sweet motherfucking shit, where are you? Can you send some sort of picture?”

Dave, naturally, complies. A photo of his surroundings is sent, accompanying a text, which reads, “I am currently in the middle of crowd section number 413 so if you have any clues gimme a shoutout.”

“Okay, so you're near the bakery. That means you're at least going the right way! Good for you, child, I'll reward you a gold star on the class board of ‘Wasn't Quite As Much of a Dumbass as He Could Have Been’ later today. That takes Dave Strider up, from -1 stars to a fucking whopping 0 stars! You're now on the same ranking level as the Von Karma Inn. Con-fucking-gratulations.”

“First of all that's fucking rude and second of all isn't the von karma inn the place that was shut down a few years ago for being absolutely infested with bedbugs and random STDs.” As Dave types and eventually sends this text, he continues to weave in and out of the crowd. He considers sending a further text, only to spot a flash of wild, black hair near the front of the crowd. Naturally, he follows, and he winds up settling into the provided lawn chair just as the parade begins. At around the same time, his phone vibrates.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 12:00 --

CG: We've already discussed this, but I'm sure you've already forgotten the issue, since your brain has the retention capabilities of a thoroughly sodden dollar store sponge, it's loud here.

Dave, after reading the message, smirks. He's aware that Karkat doesn't see it, as he's still busy typing. So, after opening the PesterChum app, he quickly interjects.

TG: no fuckin shit sherlock any other bright reccommendations

CG: Don't be a smartass at the Holiday Parade, Strider. *As I was fucking saying,* I can't really hear in these situations, so I'm going to use PesterChum to communicate. Is that still a good plan, yes or no?

TG: plan's ok

Dave intends to send more than this measly string of text, but his thumb slams send as he jumps, startled by the loud honk of a horn. When he looks up, at the parade route, he sees the leading vehicle. He'd read about it online recently, so he now knows that the truck-like vehicle is from 1938, but he didn't expect it to be so damned loud. A wreath, wrapped with yellow and white racing lights, is mounted to the grill, and the mayor of the town (some kind but eccentric man, known affectionately by his initials, W. V.) stands in the elevated back bed. Speakers mounted to the vehicle blast Christmas music, thus further invalidating the whole “impartial holiday celebration” argument; not that anyone minds.

TG: i've never been a christmas  
TG: i mean HOLIDAY parade  
TG: i've never been to a holiday parade before  
TG: it's actually pretty cool seeing all these people just pal-ing it up out here with each other and getting excited for the holiday season  
TG: i dunno maybe it's just cool because at my place there wasn't really a christmas celebration or whatever if i wanted festivities i had to make them for myself y'know

CG: It's not that strange or unusual, and a lot of cities have things like this. Ours is practically the same every year. Watch this: After you've read this message, The Shriners, with their funny hats and funky little cars, are going to zoom down and do neat tricks. All the attending children will collectively shit themselves in amazement, for nothing is as marvelous nor as vapidly attention-grabbing as fast things.

As if on cue, this very thing occurs. Formally dressed older men, each wearing a fancy maroon fez and seated in a bright gold mini car, loop down the length of the road. They perform seemingly intricate maneuvers, weaving in between one another and forming a traveling figure eight. Though a few seem to be having the best time of their otherwise senile lives, the rest appear to be in the middle of death-by-boredom.

CG: After this, we'll have the kid's floats. They're not always in the same order, but each one is made by a different school. All the schools in the area make one, so there's three, and it's only for the elementary schools. The high school marching bands come next.

Again, the parade continues as Karkat outlines. The children's floats are neat, though they're not technically advanced. In a way, they're cute. Trucks are decorated with long banners, which bear hand-painted pictures of holiday traditions and ideas. The marching bands are nothing to really get excited about, either, though they sound nice. Recalling his days in high school, Dave can also say that they're better than his school's was.

TG: so when does rose's float come out

CG: No clue. The yearly business floats are on a random rotation, so no company really contributes continually. It makes the parade more interesting, I guess, because who fucking knows what to expect. For now, just sit back and relax.

Dave nods. Then, he does exactly that. He leans back in the lawn chair, sips at his now-lukewarm hot chocolate, and enjoys the parade.

In a way, it's eye-opening. His only real interaction with his community throughout most of his life was when he was allowed to leave the apartment to go to school. He was to return promptly, never engage in extracurricular activities, and was _definitely_ not allowed to invite friends over. Going _to_ someone else's house was also expressly forbidden. He'd always assumed it was because the world outside of the apartment was cruel and indifferent. But, now, seeing the shared joy of this modest community, he's beginning to think otherwise. Maybe, it's because the world hold too much promise that he was never allowed out.

As these thoughts drift through Dave's mind, he neither denies nor embraces them. He simply keeps them for reference. Right now, he's relaxing; he didn't come to this parade to have a hardcore introspection session. And, as his attentions drift back to the festivities, his eyes are caught by the local library's float. It's relatively elaborate, and he's not entirely sure _how_ it was built, but it looks intriguing. The bulk of it is set on the back of a flat trailer bed, pulled by a standard truck, and it seems to be made like a wall. This wall resembles two books, both open and spine-to-spine. People, presumably library workers, sit in front of the pages, which bear both the library name (Battlefield County Library), as well as enlarged photos of the year's accomplishments and activities. Beneath each photo is a description. Some are statistics, such as how many books have been checked out over the past year and when the busiest days were. Other images are noted to be of events, including a Halloween party and a silent auction. What catches Dave's attention, however, is a photo of Karkat, looking quite passionate, alongside an unknown person reading a children's book.

TG: is that the library shit you talked about  
TG: the learning program or whatever

When Dave looks to his boyfriend for answers, Karkat blushes. A low growl escapes from deep within his throat as he types.

CG: No, it's my long-lost twin brother. Of course it's me, you moldy bread loaf. I've told you before that I like to volunteer there every now and then. It's a way to give back to a system that helped me not end up even more of a sad, socially clueless hermit.

TG: i was just gonna say that you look really happy in that picture

By now, the float has passed, yet the discussion continues.

CG: And the point of this statement is...?

TG: no idea  
TG: i guess i was just wondering what you do in your free time or whatever since i think you mentioned one time that you don't have a job or whatever  
TG: i mean  
TG: not to be that guy

CG: I guess I just do whatever? I don't fucking know.  
CG: This is one fucking strange discussion to be holding right now. Are you suggesting I volunteer full time?

TG: tbh i ain't got a clue where this was going  
TG: i guess i was just saying you seem really happy when you're teaching sign language

Karkat doesn't respond, though a thoughtful crease briefly graces his forehead. He seems to be ready to type something else, only to notice what's happening.

CG: Oh. Fuck. It's the Maryam float.

Dave's gaze snaps up, away from his phone, and to a truck bed occupied by both Rose and Kanaya. Each seems to be modeling a different fashion line. Rose wears a pink winter jacket, more akin to a parka, while Kanaya shows off an elaborate black dress. The truck's sides are emblazoned with the company logo, and speakers mounted to the car play festive tunes. Flanking the vehicle are a hoard of excited children, clad in clothing that couldn't have come from anyone but Kanaya's mind, handing out free candy.

TG: isn't it cheating to hand out free shit during the parade

CG: Cheating? This isn't a formal horse race. It's a holiday parade.

TG: shhh the candy has to have been rose's idea i'm calling her ass out for cheating later

CG: Okay. Whatever you want to do, my little dumbass nerd.

* * *

**KARKAT VANTAS** is tired, cold, and he wants nothing more than to return home and down the bottle of mead Kanaya had given him as a strange, impromptu, and so-called “boyfriend-warming” gift. He is not, however, about to go home before the tree lighting, since that's all that Dave's _really_ here for. The ceremony, as usual, has dragged on for at least an hour. This isn't exactly surprising, since each of the “major” ornaments are individually presented and hung on prominent branches.

For little more than shits and giggles, Karkat has kept tabs on some of the strangest contributions. A demonic-looking clay rabbit ornament was the unwanted and hitherto unloved offspring of the creative minds at Paws and Pads, a pet supply store. Todd Howard, Howards, and Howardson Law Firm gave the city a straight-up store-bought ornament. Slick's Burgers offered a plasticized burger.

And, now, Karkat can see a spaceship-like ornament being hoisted up to the middle branches of the tree. Intrigued, he listens to the announcement.

“Voltron Labs presents an ornament designed by local newcomer, Dave Strider! Based on the concept of the possibilities of the future, this Bauble is meant to be symbolic of what heights we can reach, together!”

Looking to his left, Karkat sees Dave. For the first time since he's met him, the man is beaming. He oozes pride. Karkat wants nothing more than to express how proud of the accomplishment he is, too, but finds himself unable to do so. His phone is dead, and he doesn't know how much sign language Dave knows. So, instead, he offers a more universal expression of his joy. He steps forward and tightly embraces Dave.

And Dave, to Karkat's surprise, reciprocates, wrapping his arms, too, around his boyfriend.


	39. Walking in the Air

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the meaning of the random poetry is revealed

**DAVE STRIDER** , having not heard from Kanaya in regards to photography for quite some time, kneels in the middle of a local coffee shop. His camera is aimed at a steaming cup of coffee, over which has been squirted a generous amount of whipped cream. Right now, he's trying to balance the camera's focus. He wants both the swirling white toppings _and_ the chocolate straw to be crisp and clear. Despite the fact that he's inside, the building is old. The heating system is broken, and it's cold as _fuck_. His fingers, clad in gloves, struggle to find the buttons and properly adjust the sensitive controls.

“Welcome back to today's broadcast of _Ya Heard? With Perd!_ where I, Perd, tell you about what's happening in this town, Skaia,” drones the television. “Today's breaking news: Raccoons have started to act like people. Contributor EriDamn2000 sent us this photo of a raccoon. Sitting at a table. Holding a Barbie tea cup. What. Is. That. Raccoon. Doing? Well, whatever it is, you heard it here fist, on _Ya Heart? With Perd!_ from me, Perd Hapley. And, now, for a commercial message.”

The commercial is loud, jarring, and causes Dave to lose his focus. He jumps.

At the same time, a familiar voice chimes in. “Rose said you'd be here.”

Again, Dave jumps. He turns, only to find himself staring at a smirking Karkat Vantas. “Fuck! What're you doing here?”

“It's Christmas Eve, you worthless ass-licker. I'm here because it's _Christmas Eve_ , and Kanaya is throwing a party. I tried to invite you, but you never responded. You just sent back a message that said something like, ‘yeah, cool, I'm going to go sniff my own ass, now’.”

“First of all, I have no goddamned clue how I'd sniff my own ass. Secondly, I don't remember getting an invite.” Dave pauses. He checks his watch, considers his options, and ultimately makes one of his impulsive-as-usual decisions. “Sure. Let me pack up here. Do you mind if we swing by my place before we go? I want to pick up something.”

“No problem,” Karkat shrugs.

* * *

**KARKAT VANTAS** stands in the corner of the living room, between the walls and the kitchen island. He's been nibbling from the cheese platter for the past hour or so and listening in on the many conversations happening around him. Much of this “listening” is mostly extrapolation. Hearing clearly in such a crowd, especially with the live band playing, has always been a challenge, so he focuses on nearby discussions. By reading lips and focusing, he's able to at least understand enough to guess the rest. Even by now, only two hours into the party, plenty of people have shown up, as they always have, to the party. Many of them are among Skaia's most elite. He's even spotted the mayor wandering around, but, as usual, he's elusive. Not that Karkat _really_ wants to talk to him...

“Yeah, so, you said something about Pidge's Roomba, Keith?” Lance asks, his arm around his boyfriend's shoulder. A smirk is spread across his face, as if he knows the answer to the question. In his hand, he holds a glass of eggnog, which he's been heartily drinking from.

Keith, meanwhile, nurses his usual cup of rum and Coke. Before he responds, he rolls his eyes and breathes a long, disgruntled sigh. “I've told you already, Lance, I saw it. And I accidentally stepped on it. The Roomba is dead, and I'm just waiting for it to be _not Christmas_ to tell Pidge I accidentally murdered her dear Roomba, okay?”

Hunk, clad in his festive Santa outfit, gasps. He takes a nervous bite of his sandwich (catered by Slick's). “Oh my God. _Oh my God_ , Keith. It was you!”

Lance snickers. “Yup. My man over here killed the Roomba. Acxa was killed by Keith's errant foot, and we're privy to the info.” A laugh and a charming wink punctuates the statement.

Honestly, Karkat has to say that Lance is an attractive man. He doesn't know much about his personality, but he seems charming and nice enough, too. Clearly, Keith has his hands full, but not exactly in a bad way. Similarly, Keith is also attractive and interesting. Despite his cool demeanor, Karkat has noticed that Keith is a deeply caring and loyal person.

As Karkat watches the scene, another pair pass by. One of the two is a relatively short man, whose golden blond hair is held back by a mid-length ponytail. Accompanying him is a woman, sporting a longer ponytail, with similarly colored hair. They appear to be engaged in a deeply philosophical discussion about chemistry, though Karkat doesn't really care for this. He's never been into chemistry, and he sure as hell won't be getting into it tonight, in the midst of yet another of Kanaya's extravagant Christmas parties.

“Drink?” Karkat turns, prompted by a familiar soft, consistent cadence. As he expected, he finds himself looking at Dave. He'd changed before coming, so he's not clad in a more formal outfit. A bright red cravat hangs loosely from his neck, and the end is tucked into his medium grey vest. A black suit jacket is on top, though it (probably) doesn't go with the slightly lighter black pants. Right now, his shades are down but, as he approaches, he raises them, revealing his eyes. “Sorry for suddenly ditching. I was trying to find the drinks.”

“Fair.” Nodding, Karkat takes the drink Dave is offering. Though he takes a nicely sized sip, he quickly remembers that he doesn't actually _like_ eggnog. In fact, as far as he'd concerned, he never has. He shakes his head, sets aside the cup, and turns his attentions back to his boyfriend. “So, what've you cornered me over here for, huh?”

“Well, see, that's the fuckin' mystery, ain't it?” Dave grins. As he does, Karkat studies his smile. His teeth aren't perfect; they're not perfectly white, nor are they entirely straight, but they're perfect to him. The sparkling lights, which are hung throughout the living room, glitter brilliantly against his eyes, which are brimming with an enigmatic emotion. Pride? Nerves? Whatever it is, Dave won't reveal. What he _does_ reveal is a piece of paper, which he pulls from the inner pocket of his jacket. He hands it over.

And, naturally, once the page is in his hands, Karkat starts to unfold it.

Dave, however, intervenes. Sweat has formed on his forehead. “Actually, before you open that, I just wanted to say that I've... I... I've never really given a Christmas gift to anyone in person before. I mean... It... I... Fuck.” He shakes his head, as if to clear his mind, though his anxious stammering continues. “S-s-so... Uh... Yeah. I hope you like it. I know it ain't much, but I didn't want to... Uh... I-I... I didn't want to take out a Rose Lalonde loan. She's... My half-sister is a vicious loan shark, so...” At this point, Dave's voice trails off. His hands wring together, and his gaze falls to the floor.

Karkat prepares himself. He has no idea what to expect as he unfolds the page. Is it art? A prank? How would he know? As much as he's learned about Dave, the most prominent lesson he can think of is that this man is never perfectly predictable. He, like every other human, has his habits; he has his tells. But, above all, Dave Strider is a man who acts by his own rules, and those are dictated by his heart.

When the page is fully unfurled, Karkat finds himself staring at a hand-written poem. He reads it, all with the backing track of Dave's rambling. “I get that it's nothing big, a-and... And I understand that I probably should have gotten nicer paper or typed it up, but I thought it was more genuine like this, y'know? Rose's been bugging me to write poetry for a while, so... I dunno. If you don't like it, I get it. I'll get you a real gift later, after I've got a little more money in my empty-as-fuck pockets, so...”

The beating of the bass and the boom of the heart,  
Under mixed sounds and melodies that the ears can't part  
Is the symphony of the world, a song unsung,  
Like the sky, the clouds, and the sun, it all becomes one.  


The world and its chaos can be summarized  
By the notes of a song, which the heart can devise.

Bells, effervescent, ring like the stars in the night,  
Shimmering, sparkling, and bright. Bursts of light,  
Flares of sound, fireworks, form the shapes  
Of the music and mold the soundscape.

The trill of brass adds light to the land,  
Breathing life to the world and energy to the band.  
And with these sounds, the world stops, in awe,  
As music crescendos, like the rising of dawn.

“I just... I remembered you liked that one time I accidentally shat out a rhyme in a chat, so I figured... uh...” again, Dave's voice trails off.

Karkat, meanwhile, can feel himself blushing. A wide grin spreads across his face. “God. Jesus Christ, Strider, just shut up for two seconds. Shush. I love it.”

Dave freezes. He looks up, now mirroring Karkat's smile (albeit more subdued), and nods. “You do? Fuckin' rad.”

“I do,” Karkat responds. He folds the page, carefully places it in his pocket, and approaches his boyfriend. He leans forward, intending to embrace him, only to find that Dave has moved. Their lips meet, and a shiver runs down his spine. A sense of unprecedented peace and safety flows through his body, warming him from his stomach, outward. It radiates throughout him, down to the tips of his fingers.

After a minute or so, Dave steps back. His face glows pink, and his left hand is nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “I... Did you like that, too?”

“I did, you fuck-mongering nerd,” confirms Karkat. “And, as much as I fucking dread admitting this out loud, risking the unhandleable inflation of your already tedious ego, I like you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! as always, comments and feedback are always welcome. we're also nearing the end, because i've always planned to end this with or shortly after the wedding of rose and kanaya, so.... thanks for reading so far! chapters might be a little slow coming for a bit due to schedule and shit.


	40. Upholstery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **here's the song** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l8q2ejKAsHg)

**KARKAT VANTAS** stands next to Dave Strider, studying the other man intensely, and rubbing his fingers against the satin fabric of the suit he’s currently stuffed into. His brows are more furrowed than usual, and his demeanor is one of pure annoyance. “Why do I have to wear this fucking clown suit? It feels like someone is violating me with hands made from the finest, silkiest leather off a donkey’s ass.”

Dave, meanwhile, seems to be enjoying his efforts. He twists and shifts before the mirror, admiring his plainer and more traditional tuxdeo. “So, you’re saying it feels like an ass’ ass?”

“Exactly. GET IT OFF OF ME!” Karkat groans. He pulls off the jacket and casts it aside. Then, like the moody teenager he is on the inside, he folds his arms across his chest and plops onto the floor.

“It can’t be that bad,” Dave shrugs. By now, he’s found a spot on a nearby bench. He sits, with his arm crossed and his face angled slightly upward. “Besides, it’s just for a few hours. And your job _is_ primarily a formal fashion model.”

“I don’t usually have to wear these godawful fabric monstrosities for more than an hour, usually,” Karkat points out. He slinks over to Dave. “Anyhow, the wedding is pretty soon, right? We’ve got, what? Two weeks? I’m fucking floored that Kanaya hasn’t gotten this shit together before now. Usually, she’s right on top of this stuff.” At this point, there’s a pause. Karkat rubs his chin, which is now covered by a thin layer of stubble. “Then again, she’s probably too busy being on top of your half-sister...”

Dave reacts exactly how Karkat expected. the blond chokes and sputters. Even with the shades,it’s obvious that his eyes are wide. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, dude, warn me before you drop that shit on me. Damn. I don’t need to know about Rose’s sex life, and I sure as fuck don’t know Kanaya well enough to even _begin_ to give a rat’s ass about hers.”

A smug grin spreads across Karkat’s face. “You do know I only do that to see your jaw-droppingly extra reactions like that, right? You’re feeding the bullshit beast, but I’m not exactly going to complain about how much of a clueless buffoon you are.” He shrugs and rubs his implant’s earpiece. “So, what? We’re watching one of your movies tonight? I’m beyond terrified of what sort of mind-numbing slop you’ll undoubtedly suggest.”

“ _Phantom of the Paradise_ is a fuckin’ classic, first of all,” counters Dave. “Secondly, it’s so good it’ll splatter your goddamned brains all over the wall like Freddy goddamned Kreuger. So, eat that shit.” At the end of this strange comment, a triumphant grin flashes across his features; it does nothing to calm Karkat’s fears.

“Okay, then, whatever you want to keep believing in. It's your freaky little fantasy city, Strider, not mine,” Karkat retorts, smirking.

* * *

 **KANAYA MARYAM** stands before a full-length mirror, closely studying her flowing gown. She has spent a great deal of time taking this from a standard white wedding dress to a personally tailored dream outfit. The white is now offset by strings of faux black pearls, which hand in looping patterns from her waist. She's removed the sleeves, and replaced them with shorter ones, which bear black lace designs. Overall, she's attempting to match the motif of Rose's outfit, which is a plain black tuxedo with a pink tie. After all, this is a wedding; she would very much like to match with her bride.

“Looking sharp,” Rose comments, smirking. She's sitting in one of the dining room chairs, which has been brought upstairs and placed in the corner of Kanaya's spacious bedroom. “Hard to believe the wedding is in three days, right?”

“Hard to believe that my friend and your idiot brother put off obtaining their outfits until today, isn't it?” Kanaya jabs back.

Rose laughs, and the familiar, soft sound sends a shiver down Kanaya's spine. “Honestly? It's not. They'd put off their own funerals if it meant they could do whatever strange activities they so enjoy.”

“Touché.” Kanaya nods, studies herself one last time, then turns to face Rose. “So, tomorrow is New Year's, right? Do you believe it'll be a good one?”

“Well, obviously. What better way to start it than to get married to your soulmate, right?” Rose is beaming, and the smile warms Kanaya's very being.

It's contagious, and, soon enough, she finds herself smiling, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i know this is short but like tbh this story's run its course and it's time to wrap it the fuck up y'all! thanks for reading, because next chapter is gonna be the ending!


	41. Dog Days are Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> switching up the narrative style a little here for the finale!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do i need to link this song? no? okay i will not for i have grown lazy and complacent

The wedding as as extravagant, yet tastefully refined as everyone expected it to be. After all, both of the women involved are fairly wealthy, and both aren't looking to have a tiny ceremony in the back lot of the local barbecue joint, despite the fact that Dave suggested they do that. No, Rose and Kanaya are going all out. Now, the ceremony, itself, was an intimate affair. Only close friends and family were allowed to attend, and it was performed in Kanaya's living room. The reception? Now, that's where the party is.

For their reception, Rose and Kanaya booked the local art museum's ballroom. The Art Nouveau gallery's floating walkway overlooks the ground floor area, where the party is actually occurring, and the walls are, naturally, decorated with the finest modern art the city can afford to offer. There's no DJ here; the pair hired the goddamned local orchestra to play, and they're doing a stupendous job. The crowd is huge, as much of the fashion world's biggest names and many elite writers have shown up. The paparazzi is also here, as one would expect.

The party began at 7:00 PM, and it's still going strong at 10:00. The crowd, however, has thinned slightly, but this hasn't dampened any spirits. Both brides are more than happy to chat with guests and, when they can escape the cameras, one will see them passionately embracing in the far reaches of the room.

And, among this crowd, there stand two men, who hover over one of the tall standing tables. Both are enjoying their chosen alcoholic beverages. Dave drinks hard apple cider, while Karkat indulges in some fine wine. Both have also rid themselves of their ties and jackets, which have been all but lost in the chaos of the night. This, however, isn't their concern. Their concern is one another.

Due to the loudness of the event, Karkat has shut off his implant. He conveys his words through sign language, but he keeps it simple for Dave's sake.  _“This is all a little extravagant, isn't it?”_ His furrowed brows and slightly parted lips indicate a question. His gestures are wide and all-encompassing, showing that he wants every aspect of this event to be taken into account.

And Dave, though he doesn't know much sign language, does his best to respond. He's keenly aware of the fact that he's not perfectly fluent, nor is he conveying what he wants to say in the best way possible, but he gets the message across. “It is, but they're apeshit for each other,” he wants to say. “And, honestly, I'm apeshit for you...” He doesn't add on this last bit. He keeps it tucked away, in the back of his mind, and off of his fingertips. Yet, he finds himself studying every detail of Karkat's face, and how the shadows cast by the dancing gobos highlight it. He finds himself reaching out, tucking a piece of stray hair behind Karkat's ear, and swiftly withdrawing.

 _“I don't know,”_ Karkat responds. He shrugs after signing this, further hammering home his point. _“It's a little much for me.”_

“What, are you planning to get married soon?” Again, Dave refuses to speak his thoughts. He replies with only silence.

Karkat notices. A smirk spreads across his face.  _“I think it's almost time for them to throw the bouquet.”_ He turns, so that he faces the front of the space, where the orchestra is.

True to Karkat's word, Rose and Kanaya are gathering themselves to leave. The bouquet is in hand.

After nudging Karkat's shoulder to get his attention, Dave offers a coy reply. “What? You want me to catch it?”

_“You're too gay to catch. I'll do it.”_

The grin on Karkat's face sears its way into Dave's memory. He clings to it, and files it away for a later date; he wants to remember this moment, and every detail. And, just as his memory finishes recording these specifics, he sees the bouquet leave Rose's hands.

The crowd pushes forward, and people rush for the bouquet. But, ultimately, it lands in Karkat's hands.

The man looks to Dave, smirks, and leans in for a kiss.

Dave, naturally obliges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading everyone! i hope you liked the fic, and be sure to maybe check out my others if you want. ♥  
> if you liked this fic, i'd recommend trying inkbound ;)  
> sorry it's so short! i've been bouncing it around for a while and really i couldn't think of any way to pull out the ending so......


End file.
